


Across the Stars

by Flowerparrish, LadyAngelique



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky is an alien, Knotting, M/M, Star Trek AU, Steve Rogers POV, Top Bucky Barnes, Under-negotiated Kink, flying fast and loose with star trek canon, non-Winter Soldier Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-04-08 03:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAngelique/pseuds/LadyAngelique
Summary: Captain Steven Grant Rogers of the USS Avenger is having a shit week.Aka a Star Trek AU. Written for the CapRBB 2019.





	1. Glad You Came

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ladyangelique for the excellent prompt, beautiful art, and complete enthusiasm in building this world with me; to sasha for beta-ing and cheerleading; and to Jordan for always checking my grammar. 
> 
> This is 5 parts and will be updated every other day until its final posting date, June 25.
> 
> Explicit rating will be earned in chapter 3. Check the tags because: alien sex!
> 
> Also, I'm very attached to [my playlist for this fic,](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pr9fpkfH9fQqgNAP7wvCB?si=qXg8GDoKSG6T4zNFUSfX9Q) so I thought I would share it with ya'll if you're interested. <3

 

 

_“my universe will never be the same / I’m glad you came”_

Captain Steven Grant Rogers of the USS Avenger is having a _shit_ week.

 

To start the week, he and his crew had come up against a fleet of Hydrans, which was always a potential risk of exploring uncharted (and thus unclaimed) areas of space, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous when it happened.

 

Thanks to the efforts of their senior officer and mechanic, Tony Stark, they had managed to keep their shields partially up and deal enough damage to warp away from the confrontation, but it had been a close call. Over ten percent of Steve’s crew had been to medical at some point after the attack: most for small cuts, bruises, and minor burns, but a few people had been sporting more serious injuries.

 

No one had died, and he will always be grateful for that, but just keeping everyone alive never feels like enough when one in every ten people is walking around banged up and bandaged.

 

The ship had sustained enough damage that they had to spend a few days making what repairs they could—patch jobs, really, but they were too far away from any SHIELD Federation planets that might have the kind of technology they needed for real repairs—and they had been told, via SHIELD High Command, that they were to keep going, mapping what they could.

 

That order left Steve with the fear that they would be told to keep going until they were dead in the water, so to speak, and then who could help them? They were SHIELD’s main vessel that was both exploratory and scientific while also being armed to the teeth.

 

He pushed those fears aside, though, and did his duty, holding course.

 

It had been almost by accident that they had happened upon a desert planet that had enough water and the right atmosphere to support life forms. The policy of the SHIELD Federation upon finding such a planet or moon was to send down a greeting party and establish contact with any alien race they may find there. If they limited their diplomatic missions to warp-capable or technologically advanced peoples, they risked allowing the Hydrans to wipe out those cultures and strip them of any of their valuable resources. SHIELD believed that it was worth the risk of introducing advanced technology to these cultures if it helped keep them safe—and, Steve always cynically thought, added more strength to the Federation as a whole by bringing in new people and new resources to be used in the battles between the two empires.

 

But what they hadn’t realized, until it was far too late, was that their smaller shuttle had been damaged somehow in the skirmish with the HYDRANS, damage that was then exacerbated by the entry into the planet’s atmosphere.

 

“I have control, Cap, but barely,” Clint, his secondary pilot and weapons expert, tells him. From the easy way he navigates the console, one can’t really tell that there is anything wrong; but to anyone who knows him, it’s an easy read. Clint’s natural disposition is chatty and happy, full of jokes and witty commentary, but right now he’s intent, wholly focused on his task.

 

“What’s the sustainability of the shuttle?” Steve asks.

 

Before Clint can answer, a sandstorm that had appeared distant only moments before overtakes them, decreasing visibility to absolutely nothing.

 

That isn’t the worst of it, though. The cracks that had begun forming in the hull of the shuttle start to spread as the force of the winds exacerbates the damage. Steve watches in horror as the metal of the shuttle bends, dents, and starts to split.

 

“Captain—” Thor, his senior security officer, stars to speak, but he’s cut off by the grinding screech of metal tearing in half.

 

Steve has just enough time to think, _fuck, I should never have joined SHIELD,_ before he’s torn from his seat and ejected from the shuttle, watching the ground rise quickly toward him. Then: impact, and everything goes black.

 

\--

 

Steve wakes up, which in and of itself is a surprise.

 

The first thing he notices is that his exposed skin—face, neck, hands—feel sore, like it’s been rubbed raw by sandpaper. The second thing he notices is that he is somewhere cool. The third thing he notices is that he is lying on something hard and uncomfortable, and when he manages to crack his eyes open, he notices the fourth thing: that everything around him is dark.

 

 _Where am I?_ he wonders, and then with sudden clarity the memories come rushing back. The Hydrans, the newly discovered planet, the shuttle falling to pieces in a sudden storm. Getting launched from the shuttle crash, and then… nothing. “Fuck.”

 

He hears a noise from a short distance away, jumbled and lyrical sounds that don’t form words—at least, not words that Steve is familiar with. On an alien planet, that’s to be expected.

 

He pushes himself up on his arm, wincing as his scratched-up palms come into contact with what feels like hard stone. When he looks in the direction of the sound, he sees faintly glowing light, not quite blue or green but somewhere between the two. The light isn’t from one source; rather, he realizes, it emanates from some kind of markings—tattoos?—on a humanoid figure. Their face is mostly shadow, only parts of their cheeks, chin, and forehead glowing, but Steve thinks he can see the light reflect off of their eyes.

 

He shoves one hand into his pocket, bypassing his phaser because the person hasn’t made any attempt to hurt him and might have actually saved him, and instead pulls out a universal translation device.

 

He tosses it on the floor between them and then collapses back down onto his back, shoving an arm under his head to keep it cushioned from the floor.

 

His head _aches._ He hopes he doesn’t have a concussion. He’s quick to heal, but even then it will impact him for at least a day. He’ll probably be fine without medical attention, so long as he doesn’t have any additional injuries that he hasn’t yet noticed, but he hates to contemplate what everyone back on the ship would think. Natasha, his First Officer, is going to be frantic when she realizes they’ve lost communication—although maybe Clint and Thor are fine, with the (majority of the?) shuttle, and have communication capabilities. Steve, from feeling around in his pocket, has felt his communication unit broken into pieces, and he can only be glad that the translator survived.

 

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the person starting to speak in the same melodic language. Steve gives the translator time to adjust to what he assumes is a new language, to figure out the cues, and hopes that the alien will keep talking long enough for it to figure things out.

 

It takes a while, but eventually, the translator begins to do its job, translating the latter half of a sentence to Steve: “…can’t be a god; if you were, you’d probably understand me, so—” Startled, the alien cuts themself off, turning their gaze from Steve to the translator. “What is it doing?” Their markings seem to increase in brightness; Steve finds himself fascinated, which should take a back seat to establishing diplomatic contact, but his head is swimming and it’s too hard to focus on something like that.

 

“It’s a translator,” he says, and he waits for the device to figure out what sounds were likely to be the right way to convey his meaning. “So we can talk, a little.”

 

“Definitely a god,” the alien mumbles. The teal color of their markings faded to a light pink, and Steve was again distracted.

 

“Not a god,” he remembers to reply after a minute of watching the color shift.

 

“You fell from the sky,” the alien argues. “You have no markings. How do you communicate?”

 

“With words,” Steve says. “What do your markings do?”

 

The alien’s markings darken, taking on a shade closer to red. “Communicate,” they repeat. Steve can’t read their inflection without a familiarity with their language, but the stern repetition leads him to believe he might have asked something impolite, as well as something that was supposed to be obvious.

 

“Okay,” he agrees, resolving to leave that for later. “Where are we?”

 

“Near,” the alien says, and then a word that the translator doesn’t attempt to translate. The alien’s markings pulse red for a moment before fading dark, barely lit. “At the entrance to underground caverns,” they say, trying again.

 

“Are we safe from the storm?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The pounding in Steve’s head has increased, and his stomach is starting to protest against the pain with a building nausea. He knows he isn’t supposed to sleep with a concussion, but he doesn’t want to be awake.

 

“Do you have any water?” he asks, not feeling very optimistic.

 

The markings flash orange, then magenta. The alien—and wow, Steve really needs to figure out their name and pronouns, so he could stop thinking of them that way—holds out their hand, and in the dim light reflected from their markings, Steve can see crystals forming.

 

They hold their hand out even further toward Steve, and when he doesn’t do anything, say, “Ice.”

 

A little bit in awe, and more than a little worried he is hallucinating, Steve holds out his hand. The alien drops the crystals into his palm, where they certainly _feel_ like ice cubes.

 

Steve holds one up to his lips, sucking it into his mouth, and is startled by the fact that it really is just that—ice.

 

His alien savior has somehow magically created ice. _What the fuck,_ he thinks, and out loud he says, “Thank you.”

 

The colors flash yellow and pink, swirling between the two until Steve can barely distinguish between them, before they fade into purple once more. Steve _really_ wants to understand the colors, why they’re there, why they change, but he knows better than to pry.

 

So he blames the concussion for the fact that he asks, “Do different colors mean different things?”

 

The alien tilts their head, an oddly human gesture. “Yes.” Unable to read the tone, Steve can’t tell if it’s an invitation to ask more or a firm encouragement to shut the hell up on the topic.

 

Steve is with it enough to err on the side of caution, and he nods, immediately regretting the action when pain lances through his head. “Fuck,” he curses, and he is distantly relieved that the translator makes no effort to communicate the meaning of _that._

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

Steve barely stops himself from nodding; lord, he hates when his head is this foggy. “My head.”

 

“I can take you to our healers?” the alien offers. The words come out halting, unsure, which is enough for Steve to read hesitation in the tone.

 

“They won’t understand my anatomy anyway,” he points out. “I just need to rest.”

 

“Okay,” the alien agrees, and they lapse into silence.

 

Steve has almost been lulled into sleep by the gentle pulses of aching pain in his body and sharper pulses of pain in his head when the alien askes, “Do you have a name?”

 

“Oh,” Steve blurts out. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m Steve.” He could try to bring this back by saying he was Captain Steve Rogers of the USS Avenger, but he didn’t _feel_ very captainly right now, having been rescued by a dashing alien who glowed colors and lying on the cold stone floor with a concussion that’s making every thought wobbly in his head. He can always get to that later. For now, just Steve will have to do.

 

“Steve,” the alien repeats, trying out the sound. “I am Bucharius,” they offer, or at least the translator gives Steve the first two words and he hopes the last sound is right.

 

“Bucharius,” he repeats, and he watches the lights bob as the alien nods. “Are you… do your people distinguish gender?”

 

The alien made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Yes, of course,” they answer. “We have five genders.”

 

“Oh,” Steve replies. “My people have… well, some have a lot and some have a few. There’s no standard.”

 

“What is your gender?” Bucharius asks, their colors turning a strange mix of pink and orange that reminds Steve of a sunset.

 

“I’m a man,” Steve tells them.

 

“Man,” Buckarius repeats slowly, and it takes Steve a moment to realize the translator hasn’t translated that word for him. “What does that mean?”

 

Steve desperately attempts to think of other terms that might translate between their languages and cultures. “Um, boy? Human male?” Bucharius shakes his head. Steve shrugs. “I use he/him pronouns?”

 

“Ah, pronouns!” Bucharius’ colors flash yellow. “I use the same.”

 

“What do they sound like in your language?” Steve asks, curious. When Bucharius answers, Steve can’t make out where one word ends and the other begins. Not for the first time, he resents being particularly bad at non-human languages—unlike Natasha, who speaks more languages and dialects than he can keep track of. She would probably be having a blast (as much as she ever does, anyway).

 

Steve notices that he’s drifting again. “I think I need to sleep,” he admits, giving in to the weight in his head.

 

“I will keep you safe,” Bucharius promises, and Steve can’t help but think it sweet, that this alien whom he’d barely met wants to protect him.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs in reply, unsure if the translator picks it up, and before he can listen to find out, he falls asleep.

 

\--

 

When he wakes up this time, his body is aching and stiff against the cold ground, but his head is pillowed against something much warmer and softer. He blinks his eyes open and glances in the direction of the alien man, but realizes after a fuzzy moment that the glowing alien is much closer now—Steve’s head is pillowed on Bucharius’ thigh.

 

“Um, hi?” Steve says, a little bit thrown by the change. He’s particularly thrown that he hadn’t noticed himself being touched and maneuvered while he was unconscious; he’s (supposed to be) way better trained than that.

 

“I did not want you to hurt your head on the stone,” the alien explains.

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees after a pause, “thanks.”

 

“How are you feeling?” Bucharius asks.

 

Steve pushes himself up, going slow, but while his head still aches, it doesn’t spin. His stomach remains quiet as well: hungry but not nauseous. He figures the worst of the concussion must be past him. “Better,” Steve decides aloud.

 

“Can you walk?”

 

Steve considers that. While his body is sore from lying prone on the ground for so long, he doesn’t feel any of the tell-tale sharp pain that indicates a worse injury. “I think so.”

 

“I should take you to The Elders.” The colors, before a light purple, flash a color somewhere between teal and a light emerald. 

 

Steve wonders who _The Elders_ are, and he can’t help but feel that the title is slightly ominous. Knowing that the translator is probably just doing its best to communicate their role in Bucharius’ culture’s hierarchy somehow doesn’t make it much better.

 

On the other hand, this is the job Steve had signed up for when he’d agreed to captain a ship exploring the unknown outer reaches of space. This is far from worst case scenario—no one had yet been hostile, and while Steve was injured and separated from the other members of his landing party, Bucharius had actively gone out of his way to rescue Steve and keep him safe.

 

And that leads him to another consideration: the landing party. Steve needs to do whatever he can to rescue Clint and Thor; he’s wasted enough time as is. The instinct to head out and look for them now wars with the knowledge that he needs to play his diplomatic role, and in the end the latter wins out, if only because he knows that if he can secure help in searching for his crewmembers, his search will be that much more effective and likely to succeed.

 

“Sure,” he agrees, aware that his pause has been long and hoping that it hasn’t offended Bucharius.

 

“Can you stand?” Bucharius asks, rising himself.

 

Steve shrugs, and then realized that without a cultural background on these people he really needs to tamp down on the gesturing. He clearly still isn’t one hundred percent back on his game.

 

After a moment, Bucharius offers a hand to Steve. Knowing better than to take it without knowing the cultural significance but also knowing he probably needs the help, Steve takes the hand after a brief moment of hesitation and allows Bucharius to pull him to his feet.

 

His muscles are stiff and he stumbles, almost falling over before the alien catches him in strong arms. He blushes, both at himself and the realization that the alien man isn’t wearing a shirt. Steve can’t see him well, but he can make out enough of the lines and planes of his body to infer that he is probably someone Steve would consider attractive.

 

 _Not the time or the place,_ he reminds himself sternly. “Sorry, thank you,” he says instead, getting his legs to hold his own weight more steadily underneath him.

 

The alien is studying his face—Steve wondered, suddenly, how good his night vision is—before saying, “It is no hardship.”

 

The dissonance between the lyrical words up close, incomprehensible to Steve, and the fainter words in Standard coming from the translator remind Steve to pick it up before they go anywhere. He stoops to grab it, his spine popping as it stretches, and then he nods to his alien counterpart. “Lead the way.”

 

He realizes the folly of his words as he starts to follow Bucharius deeper into the cave. After the third time Steve stumbles on the uneven ground, unable to see where he is placing his feet, Bucharius stops. “I can guide you,” the alien man offers, colors orange and pink.

 

“Oh,” Steve says, blushing, embarrassed by himself and by the offer. And by the turn his thoughts have taken _because_ of the offer. He tries to get himself under control—he doesn’t know how well Bucharius can see, whether he can make out Steve’s blush in the darkness—but it won’t do to keep doing it once they are somewhere well lit (and oh, Steve hopes they ended up somewhere with better lighting eventually). “Thank you, that would be great,” Steve replies, and at least his voice remains steady on the words.

 

Bucharius’ hand tangles with Steve’s, his hand warm in Steve’s. He guides him through the caverns from half a step ahead, and Steve’s stumbling is minimized. Finally, they make it to a part of the deeper caves—surely this is a cave system, Steve thinks, and he wonders how expansive it is—where the walls emanate a faint glow. It’s barely enough for Steve to see by, but it’s enough that he says, “I can see now, thanks,” and Bucharius drops his hand.

 

They walk that way for a short distance before Bucharius abruptly stops. “What’s wrong?” Steve asks, but the other man doesn’t answer.

 

The cause becomes apparent a few moments later, anyway, when a figure with the same glowing marks appears in the distance. “Bucharius!” they call, and then say more words that Steve doesn’t understand. As they aren’t in the range of the translator, Steve doesn’t have a clue what they’re saying.

 

By the time the figure gets close, Steve can make out their general figure; this alien is wearing a shirt, albeit a small, cropped one, and has a curving figure in contrast to Bucharius’ straight lines. Female, Steve would assume, if they were human and not aliens, but then Bucharius says to Steve, “My sister,” which somewhat confirms that speculation.

 

“Who is he?” she asks. Her colors are switching between teal and orange, a strange contrast. “What is he?”

 

“That’s a good point,” Bucharius says. “He fell from the sky but he’s not a god.”

 

“I’m an alien,” Steve says, hoping they have a word for that. They must have, because the translator says something.

 

“Yes,” Bucharius agrees. “None of my people would have survived that fall.”

 

“He doesn’t have markings,” says the girl. (Girl? Woman? Steve can’t tell, but it feels like it would be rude to ask.)

 

“I don’t,” Steve agrees.

 

“What is the box?” she asks. “That speaks his words in our language?”

 

“Magic,” Bucky said, at the same time as Steve said, “A translator.”

 

“ _Not_ magic,” Steve adds.

 

Bucky says whatever his language’s equivalent of “whatever” is, moving his shoulders in a gesture that looks like a shrug but more fluid. Steve wonders if all of their gestures are similar to humans’. On the one hand, that would be convenient, but on the other hand, he really would need to control himself then. But it’s not like he doesn’t have to anyway; it’s easy enough to cause offence by accident in cross-species diplomatic relations.

 

“Where are you taking him?”

 

“To The Elders.”

 

The girl nods, confirming Steve’s suspicion that gestures might have developed similarly between their different peoples. Still, he makes a mental note not to presume anything, lest he make a dire mistake.

 

Of course, sometimes _not_ gesturing was the dire mistake, so really, he’d just have to go with his gut.

 

Not for the first time, he wishes it had been Natasha’s turn to go on the diplomatic greeting mission. She is so much more adept at all of this than he is.

 

“Who are The Elders?” Steve asks, hoping to gain what information he can before he’s in their presence.

 

“They help govern our people and settle disputes,” Bucharius tells him. “They assign roles to members of the community. They are tasked with making sure we thrive. And they protect—”

 

“Should you be telling him all of this?” his sister cuts in.

 

Bucharius falls silent. “You’re right,” he said after a minute, and then to Steve, “Sorry.”

 

“No, I understand.” Steve can’t say he isn’t disappointed, of course, but he understands the need for secrecy, especially in the face of the unknown. “We should go to them.”

 

“When did you find him?” Bucharius’ sister asks. “Why did you not bring him sooner?”

 

“He was injured.”

 

She cast her eyes over Steve. “He does not look injured to me.”

 

“I heal fast,” Steve tells her wearily.

 

She contemplates him for a moment more before doing the same liquid shrug as her brother.

 

Steve studies her back, unabashed. Her colors seem to stay steadier than her brother’s; they had started out teal, but quickly settled into orange, and are now purple. Bucharius’ colors were teal and emerald green—uncharacteristically, they had been mostly steady that way since he and Steve had set off, although they had been pink for a while when he had offered to guide Steve through the maze of the caves.

 

Bucharius’ sister seems to notice something off with him, too, because she says quietly (but not so quietly that the translator can’t pick it up), “Calm down. The Elders will know what to do.”

 

“I know,” Bucharius agrees, but his colors don’t waver.

 

 _Emotions, maybe?_ Steve thinks there might be a biological precedent for that, somewhere in the SHIELD Federation’s portion of the universe, but he doesn’t know off of the top of his head. Xenobiology and xenoanatomy aren’t his forte—that’s Helen and Bruce’s specialty.

 

Still, this is possibly his first clue at figuring out the aliens around him; now he can test his theory, trying to see if certain colors seemed to align with certain emotional states. It’s a long shot, especially considering that he can’t make out tone or inflection behind their words most of the time, but he is, to put it delicately, up shit creek, and he’ll take what clues are offered to him.

 

“What’s your name?” he asks Bucharius’ sister, remembering too late once again to be polite.

 

“What’s yours?”

 

“I’m Steve.”

 

She studies him, either deciding if his name is a good fit or deciding if his honesty is worth her own. “Rebecara,” she tells him after a few moments of scrutiny.

 

He must have passed muster, then. “Nice to meet you,” Steve says.

 

She doesn’t respond to that, choosing to instead ask, “Where are you from?”

 

“A planet called Earth, very far away.”

 

“Weird,” she says decisively. “I can’t believe aliens are real.”

 

“All kinds of aliens,” Steve tells them—them, because he notices Bucharius listening intently and trying to pretend he isn’t. It’s distinctly adorable, that affected seriousness covering up the man’s former enthusiasm. “My planet is part of a group of alien cultures who have all banded together. We’re called the SHIELD Federation.”

 

“But how do you all get along?”

 

Steve considers that. “We don’t always agree on everything, but we know that we’re stronger as a group than on our own. There are some other aliens near our part of space—the Hydrans—that often try to take things from us. We can help keep each other safe if we band together.”

 

There are other reasons, of course, less noble and protective ones—economic, mostly, and political—but Steve has never had patience for that side of diplomacy. He doesn’t see places in terms of their money and resources and power, but rather envisions the potential for cultural growth, diversity, and wants to use what power they have to protect those that are vulnerable.

 

“Will you extend an offer for us to join the Federation?” Bucharius asks, betraying his attention to the conversation.

 

“Most likely,” Steve says. “But mostly we’re just here to extend an introduction. To say hello.”

 

“We?” Rebecara’s markings flash red for a few moments.

 

“I captain a spaceship that’s up in the sky, above your atmosphere,” Steve tells her. “Most of my crew is up there.”

 

“Most?” Rebecara asks, the red fading partially back to purple, but not quite. “Who isn’t?”

 

“I had brought two of my officers with me, to pilot our shuttle and provide backup in case I was attacked. But our shuttle malfunctioned, and we crashed. That’s why I fell from the sky.”

 

“There’s more of you.” Bucharius sounds displeased enough that Steve could pick up the tone in his foreign language. His markings are mostly teal, a little bit red, and a little bit orange. “Where are they?”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve answers honestly. “I need to find them, after I speak to your Elders.”

 

They fall into an uneasy silence, one in which Steve can’t help but allow himself to worry over Clint and Thor. He isn’t sure how he’ll live with himself if something has happened to them; he’s lost only five crew members since the start of their mission a year and a half ago, and each one had hurt worse than the last. But to lose not only two crew members, but two close friends?

 

No, he can’t think like that. They’re going to be fine.

 

Resolution aside, he can’t help but think that this would be going so much better if the mission had gone to plan. He would have Clint and Thor with him, and he wouldn’t be injured and relying on these people’s hospitality and any help they are willing to give him. He would feel more like a captain then, less like a burden and a potential threat.

 

But, well, the best laid plans and all of that. All he can do now is try to salvage this mess and make something good out of it.

 

The shifting scenery around them pulls Steve out of his maudlin thoughts. They turn a corner in the caverns, and suddenly everything is much brighter, light emanating from crystals hung or embedded every few feet on the walls. The tunnel has also widened into an actual cavern, a space so huge Steve can’t see where it ends.

 

Steve feels his breath catch in wonder at the sight before him.

 

He can see buildings, either built into the tunnel or looking as if they’d sprung fully formed from the ground, all stone and yet not one shade—made instead from colorful stones and crystals. There is also vegetation and pools of water, along with a larger stream that meanders through the settlement and deeper into the cavern system, out of Steve’s line of sight.

 

“It’s beautiful,” he says, and Bucharius’ markings turn the pale pink lemonade shade Steve is growing accustomed to seeing on him, as Rebecara’s shift to a brighter lemon yellow.

 

Steve takes this opportunity to study them in better light—okay, maybe more to study Bucharius, but he does try to subtly catalogue them.

 

Bucharius’ eyes are some of the palest blue Steve has ever seen, a contrast to his skin, which is, while not _dark,_ considerably darker than Steve’s. His sister’s skin is about the same shade, and her markings are not in the same pattern as her brothers, but they do cover the majority of her body as well. Their hair is dark and long; Bucharius’ reaches to his shoulders, and his sister’s falls down to her mid-back.

 

For the most part, though, they look quite similar to humans. It makes Steve all the more curious about what their differences might be—not that he’s going to _ask,_ of course, but he’s always been the curious sort.

 

Rebecara turns to her brother and says, “I’ll gather up the council. You take our guest home and feed him or something? Keep him out of the way for now.” With that, she heads off, her steps purposeful, and quickly vanishes into the settlement.

 

“Are you hungry?” Bucharius asks, as he lightly touches Steve’s arm before beginning to move into the city. The brief touch makes Steve miss the warmth of his hand in Steve’s, but he pushes the thought away with a faint flush.

 

“Yes,” he admits, following Bucharius through the—streets? They aren’t like any streets Steve is accustomed to, more paths among the colorful vegetation, pools of water, and stone structures. “I don’t know what I can eat from here, though.”

 

Bucharius makes a noise, a small humming sound, before he speaks again. “Let’s start small. Do you eat animals or plants?”

 

“Both. Although only some plants.”

 

“Alright, we’ll start with animals, then, and hopefully it works out.”

 

Steve hates that he’s been reduced to this state of trial and error; the shuttle had carried enough rations for a few days of meals for all three of them specifically to prevent this kind of thing. Any foreign food could easily make him sick, even kill him, but, well.

 

He can tell from the gnawing hunger in his stomach that he needs to eat. Part of the cloudiness in his mind is probably from inadequate nutrition; protein, even potentially dangerous alien protein, will go a long way toward fixing that.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees reluctantly. “Thank you for all of this, by the way.”

 

The alien man smiles at him, markings yellow—yellow for pleased? Steve mentally files that observation away for reference. “Can’t let you starve, can I? Even if you are an alien.”

 

Steve hopes the rest of Bucharius’ people are as friendly as he is. He doesn’t think his luck will hold quite that strong—not on top of the shit week he has been having—but then, it’s always good to hope.

 

They come to a stop in front of a structure made of brown stone with red and gold flecks. The windows are made of smooth glass, and there is ivy climbing up the stone sides of the building. Bucharius opens the door, something lighter than stone that looks like it might be of some type of wood, at odds with the rest of the structure’s design but somehow still aesthetically harmonious.

 

Steve follows him inside, noticing how quiet it is. “You live here?”

 

“This is my family home.”

 

“Where are they?”

 

Bucharius gestures vaguely at the outside world. “Lessons, work, doing whatever their roles require.”

 

Steve nods. “Okay. Are you sure no one will mind that I was here?”

 

“Yes.” Bucharius leads him to a room that houses what Steve takes to be a freezer, a large stone container literally packed with ice. He pulls out something that looks like meat and looks cooked, if cold, and puts it on a plate, offering it to Steve. “I can’t heat it without my sister, sorry.”

 

“That’s fine,” Steve assures him, taking the plate and looking around. The room has a table, chiseled with intricate designs, and chairs to match. Steve risks sitting down in one, because his head is spinning and he’s exhausted despite all the rest he’s had since the crash.

 

In the absence of cutlery, he simply tears off small bites. The moment the food hits his stomach, it surges with hunger, and he devours what he’s been given in minutes.

 

Bucharius sits opposite him, glowing a light orange that provides a sharp contrast to bright blue eyes. “How much do you eat?”

 

Steve considers the question. “I eat more than most humans—than most of my species. But this is enough.” It isn’t, necessarily, enough to make up for the meals he has missed, but it will keep him going for now. “Thank you.”

 

He looks around the kitchen, appreciating how similar to a human household it is, and yet how odd certain things stand out for their difference.

 

For one, there are no photographs, but there _are_ pictures, all paintings and sketches. “Why are most of the pictures in black and white?” Steve asks absently, noticing the pattern.

 

“Color has meaning,” Bucharius answers simply.

 

Steve thinks about that. “But you all have expressions,” he points out. There are pictures of various people—members of the family, Steve assumes, or friends—smiling, laughing, pouting, glowering; happy and neutral and annoyed and amused and fond, if Steve is reading them right.

 

“It’s different,” Bucharius tells him after a moment.

 

“How?” Steve probes, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“It just is.”

 

Steve knows when he’s pushed too far and when to let something go, and this is definitely a moment when both of those are true. “Sorry,” he offers. “I just like learning about people and their cultures.”

 

The alien smiles at him, colors pink and yellow; colors that, Steve notices, always seem to be bright and happy. He is, Steve realizes all at once, now that his head is clearer, absolutely gorgeous when he’s happy, and Steve can’t help but blush. _Fuck,_ he admonishes himself, _NOT the time to develop a crush._

 

“I am not angry,” the alien assures him, tearing him away from his own thoughts. Steve thinks he’s sees the man’s eyes linger on his cheeks where they must be stained pink by his blush—damn his Irish complexion—but Bucharius doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t ask. Instead, he continues, “I just can’t explain it better. I have never had to try.”

 

Steve nods again. “I understand.” He decides to change the subject to something less fraught—hopefully.  “What are your family like?”

 

Bucharius brightens, expression and colors both. “My parents are Aerion and Cyll, and you have met my sister. Her partner is Dwyn, and their children are Tulir and Tiwlip and Tegwyn.”

 

“Must get confusing, all the similar sounding names,” Steve notes.

 

Bucharius shakes his head. “They are all very different. It is hard to confuse any of them for the others. The rest of my family—my parents’ siblings and their children—are often in and out, and I have my own home, as does my sister.”

 

“It must be nice, to have so many people around.”

 

“We rely on each other.”

 

Steve thinks of his crew. There are some individuals he doesn’t necessarily _like,_ but he would do anything to keep them safe and, to an extent, happy. He wonders if that’s what makes a family—and if it is, why sometimes he feels so achingly lonely inside.

 

His father died before he was born, and his mother died when he was barely an adult. He hadn’t known what to do with himself, but joining the SHIELD Federation and all that had ensued—well, it was the choice that he had made. There was no use in reflecting on what might have been different; this is the life he has.

 

And it is a good life, full of good people. Sure, he gets lonely, or sad, or scared, and doesn’t have anyone to share that with, but this is the life he signed up for. Nothing is perfect.

 

He’s just opening his mouth to ask another question, anything to keep his mind from wandering further, when Rebecara enters the room. “The Elders will see him now.”

 

“What else did they say?” Bucharius asks.

 

“Nothing important,” his sister tells him. “You know they wouldn’t.”

 

Bucharius sighs, colors teal and red. “I know.”

 

“Should I be worried?” Steve asks.

 

“No,” Rebecara tells him. “My brother is overdramatic.”

 

Steve smiles at that, and at the way Bucharius’ color’s flash a darker red in response. “Okay,” he says. “Might as well get it over with.”

 

\--

 

Steve doesn’t know what to make of The Elders. They are all dressed similarly to Bucharius and Rebecara, in clothes that reveal as much of their markings as possible. What also surprises him is that each of them has markings glowing different colors; Bucharius’ markings are often teal or pink and Rebecara’s are often purple or orange, but they shift readily, no color seeming to be settled in their skin. But all of the Elders are flickering either orange or teal, intermittently, amidst their more prevalent respective colors. Steve doesn’t know quite what to make of the situation—or of them. 

 

Steve tries not to assign genders to the people before him, something he’s gotten better at with age as he encounters the diversity of not only of alien peoples but also of the human race. He listens as Rebecara briefly explains the translator to them, allowing her to place it between him and The Elders.

 

“Hello,” Steve greets after a few moments of silence, when Rebecara has stepped back a ways with her brother. They don’t leave, and Steve finds himself inordinately grateful for that, the reassurance that he (probably) has allies at his back. “My name is Captain Steven Grant Rogers of the USS Avenger. I hail from the SHIELD Federation—specifically, the planet Earth.”

 

“Hello,” greets one Elder, whose markings have stayed steadily purple the majority of the time Steve’s been here. Steve makes a note to himself that they hadn’t said “welcome,” and he doubts that that’s because the word doesn’t exist in their language. _Fair enough,_ he thinks to himself. He’d probably doubt an alien who showed up in such rough shape, too. “What brings you to our planet?”

 

“I intended to come with two crewmates to introduce myself to you and your people,” Steve answers honestly. “My ship is an exploration vessel, and we are often tasked with meeting new peoples. The Federation is always willing to expand, and if not that, we are always looking to build alliances.”

 

“You say you intended to do this,” another Elder speaks up—the one who glows primarily blue. “What has changed your intentions?”

 

“My shuttle crashed. I was thrown from it, and then I was found by one of your people,” he tells them, gesturing back at the siblings behind him. “My priority, now that I am mobile, is to find my missing crew members. I would appreciate any help you can provide, as well as the opportunity to talk with you further, once my business has been settled.”

 

The same Elder with purple markings from before speaks up then. “You should know that your crew members have likely perished. The surface of our planet is not very hospitable, and we have heard of no others being found.”

 

Steve dips his head in acknowledgement. “I understand,” he tells them, “but I would fail in my duty as their commanding officer if I did not do my best to discover their whereabouts, whatever state I may find them in.”

 

“We must confer,” the Elder says. “We will speak with you again in the morning. You may remain in our settlement for the night.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve says, addressing all of The Elders.

 

He steps forward to pick up the translator before returning to Bucharius and Rebecara.

 

“Come on,” Bucharius says, and Steve nods, allowing Bucharius to gently guide him away with a hand on his arm. The alien’s markings are pink, again, and Rebecara’s are orange, and Steve doesn’t care enough to puzzle on that because he is _so worried_ about his friends and he needs to find them but he also knows he won’t be much use to them half-dead from pushing himself through a recovering head injury; so he goes easily where guided.

 

He goes with them, and he hopes he’s making the correct choice.

 

When they return to the house, it is still quiet. “What time of day is it?” Steve asks.

 

“Almost evening,” Rebecara tells him. “You can’t feel what time it is?”

 

“No,” Steve replies. “My people rely on technology to tell us, or we look at the sun.”

 

“Weird.”

 

Steve only notices that Bucharius has still be touching his arm when the other man’s hand drops away. “Is there anything you need?” he asks.

 

“Sleep,” Steve admits. “I feel like all I’ve done is sleep, but I’m tired.”

 

“Of course you are,” Rebecara says. “You have been healing.”

 

“She’s training to be a healer,” Bucharius tells Steve. “She can check your injuries, if you need.”

 

“I’ll be alright,” Steve assures them both. “I’ve recovered from worse.”

 

“Okay,” Rebecara agrees, speaking over her brother, who looks ready to protest. “I’ll allow my brother to get you settled, while I go collect my children.” Her markings are an orangey yellow—happy and something else. With the expression on her face, Steve thinks maybe amused.

 

“Come on,” Bucharius says, touching Steve’s arm again before moving past him, deeper into the house.

 

They pass by a number of doorways, some with wooden doors, some with cloth coverings. Bucharius stops in front of a wood one with carvings of trees and pushed it open. Inside is a simple room with a pile of quilts on the floor in a makeshift bed. “Sorry, it’s—” Bucharius starts to say, before Steve cuts him off.

 

“It’s great,” Steve says. “Is this your room?”

 

The alien nods, markings pink. “Yes.”

 

“You don’t mind if I sleep here?” Steve asks, and he watches with distant curiosity as the man’s markings glow brighter.

 

“It’s fine,” the alien says. “I should go,” he continues, gesturing out the door. “Ask anyone if you need anything.”

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees easily, eyeing the bed. “Thank you again.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Bucharius says with a smile, before he vanishes back into the rest of the house.

 

Well, they definitely have a word for the concept of “welcome,” then. Steve powers down the translator to conserve battery life—it has a long one, of course, but it can’t hurt to be cautious—and then he crawls under some of the quilts. It takes only moments before he falls blissfully, deeply asleep.

 

\--

 

The next thing Steve knows, he is being gently shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder. He slips seamlessly into consciousness, long trained by sleeping in places where his safety isn’t one hundred percent guaranteed, or where his ability to be awake and aware at a moment’s notice is imperative.

 

He opens his eyes to see Bucharius in front of him. “The Elders,” he says, and it takes Steve a moment to realize he is saying those words in Standard, not in his own language and then waiting for them to be translated through Steve’s technology. Because, Steve remembers, he had powered down the translator before he went to sleep.

 

Steve hadn’t even considered that the alien man in front of him would be trying to learn his language. Natasha would be impressed. Steve doesn’t know what words Bucharius has learned already, so he setles for nodding, pulling the translator out from under the blankets and switching it on. “What time?” he asks.

 

“Soon,” is the answer he gets. Not specific, but enough to go on. “Are you hungry?”

 

Steve’s stomach growls at the thought, which makes Bucharius laugh. “Your body makes noise when you’re hungry?” His markings glow the pale pink lemonade shade Steve was learning to associate with him, one he hasn’t seen on anyone else.

 

“Yes,” he agrees, blushing a little at his body’s betrayal. “And yes, I’m hungry.”

 

Bucharius rises from his crouch next to Steve and offers him a hand to pull him up. Steve doesn’t need the help, as he feels much better than he did yesterday, but he can’t resist taking taking Bucharius’ hand anyway.

 

He tries not to think about that, or about the small thrill that goes through him when their skin touches. He can’t quite keep the darkening blush off of his face, though, and his only saving grace where that is concerned is that he hasn’t seen any of the aliens blush—it seems like their markings communicated more than enough, where expression is concerned.

 

Bucharius releases his hand once he’s pulled Steve to his feet and turns to leave the room. “Do you need new clothes to wear?” he asks.

 

Steve frowns down at his clothes, tattered with holes and dirty from sand and sweat, definitively worse for the wear. He almost says yes, but then he thinks about the fact that this is a desert planet he’ll be heading out into, one way or the other, and he shakes his head. “No thank you. My clothes will keep my skin from being burned by the sun.”

 

Bucharius studies him for a moment, and Steve doesn’t know why, until he says, “I suppose your skin is very pale.”

 

Steve laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees.

 

The kitchen is the same room as it was yesterday, and yet it has been transformed by the amount of people bustling around inside of it. After a moment, Steve picks out Rebecara, next to small children that must be hers, but there’s at least three other people in the room moving around.

 

Steve hangs back by the wall even as Bucharius enters and moves around the others like part of a choreographed dance Steve would have no hope of learning—but then, he’s never been a good dancer.

 

Bucharius goes to the same icebox and pulls out some meat, but instead of bringing the plate over to Steve, he heads over to his sister. He says words to her that Steve doesn’t understand—the translator can’t pick one voice when so many people are talking in one space—but she holds her hand over the plate, and her hands _burst into flames._

Steve doesn’t shout, because he’s seen weirder—surely he’s seen weirder, right?

 

Okay, maybe he hasn’t seen weirder, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, so he keeps his mouth shut even as his eyes boggle a bit.

 

After a moment, the flames go out, leaving her unblemished hands behind. Bucharius makes his way over to Steve then, passing him a plate that’s warm but not hot.

 

“What…” Steve tries to find words. “What was that?”

 

Bucharius tilts his head. “You’ve seen me use magic before,” he says. He holds out his hand, and a crystal of ice forms on his palm. “Remember?”

 

Steve nods slowly. “I kind of thought I imagined it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I’ve never met people who can do that.”

 

It’s not _quite_ true; Thor’s people can do quite a lot, but they have technological explanations backing all of the things they can do—explanations humans can only understand if they’re genius astrophysicists, but, still, explanations.

 

Bucharius’ people just… do magic.

 

Steve eats without really noticing, still a little bit in shock, but by the time he’s done with his food, he thinks he’s ready to move on and accept this as just another discovery in an endless and endlessly surprising universe.

 

“Where does your magic come from?” Steve asks, the only thing he really doesn’t get. There’s got to be _some_ explanation for it, after all—his analytical mind won’t allow for a potential that there isn’t.

 

“The crystals,” Bucharius tells him after a moment’s hesitation. His markings are teal. “That is why they are so important to our people.” He gestures at the crystal around his neck. “We are each given one when we come of age and come into our powers.”

 

Steve’s mind is racing—an energy source, maybe? But then he clocks the look on Bucharius’ face, the worry there, and he says, “I won’t tell anyone.” It’s a promise that goes against his directives in some ways, he doesn’t care.

 

Bucharius’ colors turn a light purple color, shining bright—relief? “Thank you.” He touches Steve’s arm, just a brief brush of his fingers against the fabric of Steve’s sleeve, and then says, “We should leave soon.”

 

Bucharius bids goodbye to his family, hugging each of his sister’s children before they leave, and leads Steve back to the chamber where he met with the Elders yesterday. Standing before the Elders today, after having slept what Steve could tell was an obscene amount of hours—a far cry from the six to eight he usually manages, if that—he falls much more easily into his role as the captain of a starship.

 

“I thank you for your hospitality,” he greets them when it becomes clear that they are waiting for him to speak first. “I appreciate the kindness you have shown to me, a stranger in your territory.”

 

“You have done us no harm, and you have followed our rules,” the orange Elder says in response, confirming the suspicion Steve had formed, when thinking over the past day’s events this morning, that this had been a test. “We will permit you to search for your missing people, so long as you allow us to send one of our warriors with you. They best know the surface territory and will be able to aid you in your search.” And would be able to keep everyone else safe from him in case he turned out to be less friendly than he was acting; Steve can respect that strategy and foresight, not to mention caution.

 

“Of course,” he agrees. “I am grateful for any assistance you are willing to provide me.”

 

“You may have one week to find them,” the red Elder says. “After that time has passed, we will reconvene to decide what future measures may be taken.”

 

“I understand.” Steve doesn’t like it—their planet isn’t huge, is nowhere near the size of Earth, but it isn’t small enough to cover in a week—but he does understand. They can only sacrifice their resources for so long, especially when it means risking their people for the sake of his. Especially when they don’t seem to believe his men are, or even could be, alive.

 

“We will spread word to the other settlements that you are free to pass, and we will make sure they contact us if anyone finds your people. Is there anything else that you would request from us?”

 

“You have been more than generous,” Steve tells them, and he means it. “I would ask no more of you except enough food to survive the week.”

 

“Of course,” the blue Elder says. “Send Bucharius to speak with us, and then you may begin to prepare for your search.”

 

Steve waits while Bucharius speaks to the Elders, anxious to start searching for his men but attempting to at least look patient. It isn’t long before Bucharius nods to the Elders and returns to Steve’s side. “They wish for me to accompany you,” he says.

 

“Oh,” Steve replies, momentarily stunned. After a moment’s reflection, though, he’s pleased that they chose someone he knows and trusts and even likes; that will make this so much less stressful than being sent into potentially hostile territory with a stranger. But also, “you’re a warrior?”

 

Bucharius’ colors flash red, briefly, before dimming again. “Yes,” he agrees.

 

Steve nods. _That’s hot,_ his brain thinks, unbidden, and he blushes before he can quash the thought. “That’s cool,” he says instead, which is not the smoothest thing he could say, but it’s not as bad as his initial reaction.

 

Bucharius looks amused. “Thank you.”

 

Steve’s blush is a hopeless cause, so he gives up on fighting back his embarrassment and allows himself to move past it, falling back into his default state: single-minded determination. “When can we head out?”

 

“Soon,” Bucharius promises with a nod, and he begins to reach out with his hand—to touch Steve’s arm, it looks like—but pulls himself back. His colors flash quickly from orange to pink to teal, before settling back into orange. Steve is feeling more and more confident in his theory that colors might correspond to emotional states, but he’s also at a loss as to how he’d ever confirm what they might mean. Even since he’d started keeping track, it seems like various colors can mean multiple things, or else he simply has too high of an estimation of his ability to read the emotions of humanoid peoples.

 

He’s pulled back to the issue at hand when Bucharius continues speaking, saying, “I must gather supplies for us, and we should plan our search, but we will leave before night falls.”

 

Steve agrees—of course he agrees—even as he wants to rush headlong into the search without wasting time. It isn’t a waste, though, and he _knows_ that; he just also knows that every hour they delay increases their chance of finding bodies rather than survivors.

 

Bucharius gestures for them to walk, and after studying Steve’s gloomy face in sidelong glances for a few minutes, he bumps their shoulders gently together, his bare skin brushing against Steve’s increasingly filthy shirt. “We will find them.”

 

Steve knows better than to put much stock in hope over practicality, but he also knows better than to give up hope entirely: there are few better motivators than hope. Unable to find the words for his warring emotions, he simply nods and brushes their shoulders once more in acknowledgement.

 

\--

 

Planning their rescue mission marks the first time Steve has seen a map of the planet. He had a vague grasp of the land masses and where water was, because they had scanned the planet on the main ship before they went down in the shuttle, but it’s always good to see the place from a native’s perspective.

 

Steve is unnerved to realize that, even looking at the map, he has no idea where he has ended up; he knows where they had been headed—the main land mass that had looked most promising—but he can’t guarantee that he’s actually ended up there.

 

Luckily, when Bucharius points out their location, that is indeed where they were, although a bit further south on the small planet than the region he had been aiming for.

 

“This is where we are,” Bucharius says, pointing at an area with writing on it that Steve can’t decipher. “And this is where I found you,” he continues, pointing at an area an undecipherable distance away.

 

“How far?”

 

Bucharius considers. “A day’s walk? Your men must not have been much farther—another day at most.”

 

Steve had deduced the same, guessing vaguely at what height he could fall from and survive—greater than an average human, and as of yet untested, but surely even his enhanced body had limits—but there was no telling how far astray and in what direction his men had wandered since crash-landing.

 

Best case scenario, they had found their way to another settlement and been taken in rather than killed.

 

Acceptable scenario, they had been injured enough in the crash to not stray far, but not so injured that they were in mortal peril.

 

Worst case scenarios, they had wandered far enough astray that Steve and Bucharius stood almost no chance of finding them, or they had died in the crash.

 

Steve isn’t sure whether to hope for one of the first two, or to begin preparing himself for the latter two.

 

“Do you have an idea of which direction they may have ended up?”

 

Bucharius considers the map before pointing vaguely north-east. “Possibly this way,” he offers. “But I’m not certain.”

 

“A guess is better than none,” Steve assures him, a bit disappointed but doing his best not to feel—or show—it.

 

He studies that area of the map; there is a large open space with no writing to indicate settlements close to it and no overt indicators of what kind of terrain it marks.

 

“What is this area?”

 

“This is where we farm. Each territory provides people to staff the,” he says before hesitating, and then says a word that the translator can’t pick up.

 

“The what?” Steve asks.

 

“Structures to protect the plants from surface storms,” Bucharius explains, halting at first and then more confident as the words begin to be translated.

 

 _Like a greenhouse maybe_ , Steve thinks, and nods his understanding.

 

“Does that mean they would have been found?”

 

Bucharius considers the question for a few moments before he answers. “Not necessarily. They are sturdy plants; we only check them every few days. Also, the structures do not cover the whole of the territory. They may have fallen in an empty space and remained unnoticed.”

 

Steve nods. “So that’s where we should go?”

 

Bucharius’ colors are teal, which Steve associates with generally negative emotions, but he replies, “Yes, that is the most likely place to look. Still, it is a large territory and we may not be able to search all of it in the time we have been given.”

 

Steve nods. “Let’s plan our approach, then.”

 

They bend to the task and within an hour have decided on a strategy that involves searching as much open land as possible while also checking greenhouses so that they don’t miss the men if they have found their way into one. Steve actually hoped they had; with the frequency of storms on the surface, apparently every few days on average and springing up with little warning, it would be safer for them to be in a sturdy structure than outside at the mercy of the elements.

 

Next, Bucharius gathers supplies for their mission, dried meat for Steve and an assortment of other foods that will keep well for himself. Steve, already sick of his diet of meat, is almost willing to try some of the nuts or what look like dried berries, but he can’t risk that they might make him too sick to travel quickly (or at all). He resigns himself to his limited diet for the near future, secure in the knowledge that at least he is getting the protein he needs, and that when he makes it back to the ship (and he _will_ make it back to the ship, eventually) he will be able to get the vitamin supplements he needs to make up for his present diet.

 

With food, water, and a map packed, Bucharius returns home to explain his assignment to his family. Rebecara stands with Steve, her colors teal and red. “Look after my brother” is all she says.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Steve replies.

 

She studies him with a piercing gaze before nodding, sharply, once, and gives him one more word: “Good.”

 

 


	2. Counting Stars

 

_“lately I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep / dreaming about what we could be”_

The journey back through the tunnels is less nerve-wracking. Steve once more holds Bucharius’ hand for guidance in the dark, and he appreciates the faint light cast by the alien man’s pink and orange markings.

 

When they reach the opening of the tunnels, from which the faint light of dusk pours through, Steve catches his first true glimpse of the surface of the planet.

 

It is all towering orange and purple rocks and sandy desert—breath-taking, for all that Steve prefers shade to relentless sun.

 

He only gives himself a few moments to drink in the sight, however, before turning to Bucharius to ask, “Which way?”

 

“We should wait out the night inside the tunnels,” Bucharius says instead of directly answering. “We may miss important clues in the dark, and we would not be able to see a storm approach.”

 

Steve chafes at that even as he acknowledges the sense in it. “Okay,” he agrees, but he can’t muster enough positivity to pretend to be happy about it.

 

They share a small but adequate meal before settling in, leaning against the same wall of the tunnel and pretending the rock is even the tiniest bit comfortable. Then again, maybe for Bucharius it is.  

 

Steve watches the sunset dye the sky similar colors to Earth’s own evening sky and feels himself relaxing, if only slightly. “Your planet is beautiful,” he says after a few moments of quiet between them.

 

Bucharius’ expression grows curious, his markings staying a steady orange. “What is your planet like?”

 

“I haven’t actually been home in over two years,” Steve admits. “It feels like my ship is my home now. But…” He launches into an explanation of Earth, of his home in New York City, of the buildings that seem to reach the sky but also of all the space in between the cities of steel and glass, spaces full of vegetation, teeming with life.

 

Bucharius’ eyes are wide by the time Steve’s words trail off, glinting faintly in the last rays of light from the horizon. “It sounds… incredible.”

 

Steve smiles. “It’s special to me,” he says. “I’ve seen places more beautiful in my travels, seen civilizations more advanced… but it’s home.”

 

Bucharius nods. He looks thoughtful—and his colors remain orange. Either Steve’s theory is wrong, or the colors really can mean numerous things.

 

“Why do you travel, then?” Bucharius asks, pulling Steve’s attention back to their conversation.

 

Steve considers the question; it isn’t like he’s never asked it of himself, after all, especially on longer missions like this one. “I like meeting new people and seeing places no one from my part of space has ever seen before,” he says. “Plus, there are bad people out there mixed among the good, and I want to keep the good people as safe as I can.”

 

“I can understand that.”

 

And he can, Steve realizes. He’s a warrior, charged with protecting his own people. But he is also curious and kind—he saved Steve, cared for him, evaluated what threat he might pose rather than assumed that Steve had hostile intentions. He would be perfect for SHIELD, really, if he wasn’t so clearly in love with his home and his family.

 

They settle in for sleep not long after that, as best as they can on the cold and hard stone. They brought along a blanket each, which Steve finds himself grateful for as the temperate drops. He runs warm as a rule, but on a desert-like planet, cold nights are nothing to mess with.

 

“Goodnight,” Steve says softly before he forces his brain to stop running a mile a minute and let him sleep.

 

“Goodnight, Steve.”

 

Steve’s eyes trace the glowing purple markings on the other man’s face for a few moments before they slip shut, and he drops off to sleep.

 

\--

 

Steve’s internal clock wakes him only hours later when the sun is just beginning to creep over the horizon, light drifting in through the mouth of the cave. Bucharius is already awake, leaning against the opposite wall from Steve, blanket across his lap alone despite his minimal clothes: clearly, he is much better adapted to the change in temperature than Steve.

 

“Good morning,” Steve greets. Bucharius nods and echoes the words, and Steve’s half-asleep brain takes a moment to realize he’s repeated them in Standard, rather than in his own language. He decides to voice his suspicion and asks, “Are you learning my language?”

 

Bucharius’ markings turn teal. “I apologize,” he offers in his own language, tone sounding hesitant.

 

“No!” Steve rushes to say. “It’s fine, really. I was just surprised.”

 

Bucharius’ markings are still teal, but less bright than a moment before—better, maybe, or worse? “I know every dialect on my planet,” he tells Steve, the words stilted.

 

“How many are there?”

 

“Ten.”

 

Steve blinks. “That’s… amazing.”

 

Bucharius looks pleased, markings turning the shade of pink Steve is learning to favor. “I like languages, even if ours are not so different from each other. Yours is fascinating.”

 

“My friend Natasha knows over fifteen languages,” Steve tells him. “She’s the main communications officer for our ship. I’m sure if she was here, she would be able to pick up yours in return.”

 

“What about you?”

 

“I’ve always been terrible with languages,” Steve admits ruefully. “I know bits of a couple of languages from my planet, and a few words here and there in other languages that have been important in my travels, but I only speak my first language fluently.”

 

Bucharius nods before offering, “Would you like to learn some words of mine? You can teach me words of yours in return.”

 

Steve smiles. “I would love that.”

 

Bucharius nods again and then, after a moment, turns to dig in his pack, pulling out some food for each of them. They make quick work of breakfast and then roll up their blankets before heading out into the early morning chill, the planet’s surface not yet warmed by the sun.

 

They walk and trade words back and forth as the day heats up, Steve stumbling over the words he’s given while Bucharius takes to the new language like a duck to water.

 

After a while, they give up on language practice, simply walking in companionable silence. Steve is mesmerized by the planet around them, the sand and rocks that are predominantly orange but also patterned with a variety of darker hues.

 

By midday it is far too warm for Steve’s comfort; he’s sweating in days old clothes and in no possible way is he not absolutely disgusting, and he has _days_ of this to look forward to. He tries (and fails) not to let it bother him—it is, after all, the least of his present concerns.

 

Toward the end of the day, they reach a building. It looks like it’s made of reflective glass, the kind that lets in light but that you can’t see through. It’s also huge—the size of a football field at least.

 

“We can rest here tonight,” Bucharius says, opening the door and waving Steve inside.

 

The inside is humid but cool, and Steve is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of _green_ interspersed with other bright colors, a shock after the endless orange outside. The air smells faintly sweet and a little bit earthy, and Steve feels his shoulders relax slightly.

 

“This is beautiful,” Steve tells Bucharius.

 

The other man nods in agreement. “I used to want to tend to the plants when I was a child.”

 

“Is it a popular job?” Steve asks.

 

“It is important, and so it is valued, but most of my people avoid the surface as much as possible. The only people who regularly go to the surface are the ones who tend to the plants and the warriors who guard and patrol.”

 

“Do you like the surface?”

 

Bucharius’ markings turn that pink lemonade color Steve has grown so used to seeing during their conversations. “I do. I like to see the sky.”

 

“Me too,” Steve agrees. “It’s all beautiful, but I love the sky more than anything.”

 

Steve begins to wander around the greenhouse, careful not to touch or even really breathe on any of the plants, just observing. Everything is undoubtedly alien, but at the same time so similar to the kinds of plant life he could have found on Earth that it makes him slightly homesick.

 

They eat again before carefully situating themselves in between the rows of plants to sleep. “Goodnight,” Bucharius says in Steve’s language.

 

Steve can’t contain a smile; he doesn’t even bother trying. “Goodnight.”

 

\--

 

Bucharius is once more already awake when Steve blinks his eyes open after too few hours of sleep the next morning. “G’morning,” Steve mumbles, knowing that even if the translator doesn’t pick up his words, they had covered basic greetings in each of their languages yesterday. Steve has already forgotten most of the words and phrases Bucharius had taught him, but he has a feeling the other man has a better memory for foreign words than he does.

 

“Good morning,” Bucharius replies in Standard, the words perfectly enunciated, proving Steve’s hypothesis correct. He switches back to his own language to ask, “How did you sleep?”

 

Steve yawns, the many days of too little sleep beginning to catch up with him. While he is used to sleeping less than the average person, something about the enhancements to his body and metabolism means that his body _wants_ to sleep even more than the average person.

 

“Fine,” he says after a moment. “Just less than I’m used to.”

 

Bucharius’ eyebrows go up. “How much do your people usually sleep?”

 

“Around nine hours a night.”

 

“So many?” His markings glow bright orange.

 

“How many do you usually sleep?”

 

“Four, maybe five.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “I wish that was all I needed. I would have so much more time to get things done.”

 

Bucharius nods. “It is convenient.” He digs in his pack and pulls out food for them both, passing half over to Steve. “Are you eating enough?”

 

Steve considers the question. “I usually eat more, but I will be fine for the length of our trip.” In honesty, hunger is beginning to gnaw at him constantly, but this isn’t his first time going with too little or going without entirely. “Don’t worry about me.”

 

Bucharius passes over the remainder of the food in his hands, saying, “I can eat from the plants here just as easily,” before Steve can protest.

 

Steve would protest anyway, but even the foreign dried food is too tempting to pass up. “Thank you,” he says instead.

 

“You’re welcome,” Bucharius responds in Standard.

 

Steve shakes his head, fighting back a smile. “You are incredibly good at learning languages.”

 

Pink light shines from the man’s markings—definitely good then—but he says nothing, busying himself with the plants.

 

\--

 

The sun is just barely a faint glow on the horizon when they set out. “Where to today?” Steve asks, thinking back to their plans and the map and trying to project that onto their surrounding environment.

 

“Today, we will visit nearby greenhouses to see if your companions have found shelter there,” Bucharius says. “That would have been their best chance at survival.”

 

Steve can’t contain a wince, but he nods in agreement. “Alright. Lead the way.”

 

The first three shelters they zigzagged between are devoid of people, populated only by plants, and Steve tried not to give up hope.

 

In between the greenhouses, they talk. Steve is curious about Bucharius’ people, but understands the necessity with which he guards his culture. So, instead of asking questions of him, Steve allows Bucharius to ask questions of him instead, about the wider galaxy and Earth and his ship, and lets their conversation follow from there.

 

It starts with a question Steve probably shouldn’t answer. He does, though, because Bucharius has told him about the crystals that give his people their powers, knowledge Steve knows, as an outsider, he should not have.

 

“You sometimes distinguish yourself from your people,” Bucharius says. “Why?”

 

“I’m… different, kind of,” Steve says, trying to figure out the words. “It’s a long story,” he eventually settles for warning, because there’s no neat and easy way to tell it. Bucharius just nods, waiting for Steve to get on with it.

 

So Steve tells him. About how he grew up small and sick but all he ever wanted was to join the SHIELD Federation, see the stars, meet people, protect them. How his mother died and he lost hope in everything, for a while. How he got rejected from joining the Federation many times, until one day he wasn’t rejected—but conditionally. How they experimented on him, and it worked—it made him stronger and faster and sturdier, something more than human. How, after too many failures and with only Steve as a success, the program was eventually shut down, the notes destroyed, so that no one could attempt it again.

 

Steve is, at once, their greatest success and their greatest liability.

 

“Oh,” Bucharius says, after long minutes of silence between when Steve stops talking and when he finally voices a comment. “Those don’t… sound like the actions of good people.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “Part of the reason the trials were shut down is that new people came into power. I trust them. And I knew I could do more good by becoming a captain and exploring space than I could do by leaving the Federation entirely.”

 

Bucharius looks contemplative. “You’re a good man,” he eventually says. “I’m glad it was you that it worked on.”

 

“Me too,” Steve admits.

 

“Do you ever wish you hadn’t done it?”

 

Steve sighs. “No,” he admits. “It wasn’t the best decision I ever made, but it led me here. I’ve helped a lot of people, and I know I’ll continue helping even more. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

 

Bucharius nods and, thankfully, changes the subject. “You use different names when you talk about people,” he says.

 

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, thrown off and confused.

 

“Like your first officer. You call her Natasha, but also Nat. Why?”

 

“Oh. It’s a nickname.” Steve finishes speaking after the translator, which means that Bucharius’ culture probably doesn’t have a word for nicknames. Steve considers that, because it’s such a ubiquitous concept in human culture and many of the alien cultures he’s had contact with—he’s never had to describe _why_ people might have nicknames before. “It’s usually a form of endearment,” he starts. “Like, if you’re friends with someone, you show it by calling them by a shorter version of their name. But sometimes people prefer to go by shortened versions of their name generally, like me. My actual name is Steven, but most people call me Steve.”

 

“Oh.” Bucharius seems to consider that in silence. “What would my nickname be?”

 

“Good friends call you by the nickname you prefer,” Steve says. “What would you like it to be?”

 

Steve counts thirty steps in silence, their strides and breaths in sync. Then Bucharius says, “I think… Bucky.”

 

Steve smiles softly. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he replies with a firm nod. “You can call me Bucky.”

 

Steve feels his breath catch in his throat and has to swallow once, hard, to dislodge it. “Yeah?” he asks again, a little dizzy with it.

 

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Bucharius—Bucky—asks, words nonchalant but a tension in his shoulders that Steve reads as nervousness.

 

“We are,” Steve agrees. “Bucky.” He can’t help smiling around the name, but that’s fine, because Bucky’s smiling back at him.

 

It isn’t long after that before they come upon their final greenhouse of the day, the evening just closing in on dusk. The glass reflects the colors of the sky and earth and nearly blends in to their surroundings entirely. Steve doesn’t have it in him to hope that Clint or Thor will be here; but he is eager to reach the structure and rest, however guilty that thought makes him feel, however much he wants to push on and continue searching.

 

Bucky lays a hand on Steve’s shoulder, as if sensing his internal conflict. “They may be here,” he offers as they approach. “If not, we will begin looking once more at dawn. We still have a couple of days left to search.”

 

He removes his hand only when they come to the door, reaching out to pull it open.

 

The door opens before his hand makes contact, and Steve is stunned by a shout of “Cap!” The words reach him just before a body barrels into him, almost—but not quite—knocking him flat on his ass.

 

It takes him a moment, but only that, to process what is happening and who has an arm wrapped around him like a vice. “Clint! Where’s Thor?”

 

“Inside,” Clint says, pulling away; and from inside the greenhouse, Steve hears Thor’s booming greeting: “Steven!”

 

Now that Clint has pulled away, Steve can see that his left arm is tied up in a makeshift sling. “What happened?” Steve asks. Clint levels him with an unimpressed look, and Steve amends, “How bad is the damage?”

 

“Broken arm,” Clint says breezily, like that’s not a huge deal for him. “Thor set it.”

 

Steve contains a wince and nods. “Okay, good,” he says. _Remain optimistic,_ he commands himself. _For Clint’s sake._

“Who’s this?” Clint asks, having finally clocked Bucharius, and Steve despairs slightly for his situational awareness at times. Clint can become focused on one thing and miss the bigger picture—rarely, but it happens.

 

“This is Bucharius,” Steve introduces. “Bucharius, this is Clint.”

 

“Hello,” Bucky says in Standard, and Clint’s eyebrows go up.

 

“Hi,” he replies.

 

Steve is growing more concerned as Thor fails to emerge from the structure in front of them. “Is Thor okay?”

 

“Sprained ankle,” Clint says. “We didn’t want to limp farther than this once we found shelter; we didn’t have any clue which direction to go, because the control panel from the shuttle was wrecked.”

 

Steve nods, partially relieved but still worried. “Will he be able to move with us?”

 

Clint bites his lip for a moment, but then he nods. “I think so, yeah. We’ve been here for a few days, the ankle must be mostly healed, right?”

 

Steve privately doubts that, but he nods in agreement and tries to believe it.

 

“We have healers,” Bucky says after a moment. “They will not be versed in your physiology, but they may be of some help to you both.”

 

Clint tilts his head, clearly considering. He’s a tactical genius in perfect compliment to Steve; where Steve is good at looking at the big picture, figuring out all of the players on the field, Clint is good at the details. Steve knows when to command and when to defer; he’ll trust his decision here.

 

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Clint says after a moment’s consideration. “All our communications were busted in the crash, so we have no way of contacting our ship and knowing when they can rescue us.”

 

Steve sighs, thinking about that—the next situation in this clusterfuck—now that his first mission has been achieved. “If they haven’t come for us yet, it means that none of the other shuttles are fully functional.”

 

Clint shrugs. “Tony will figure it out.”

 

Steve allows a blink to turn into a few moments with his eyes closed, gathering his fortitude and optimism before he turns to panic instead. He can feel the anxiety ratcheting up in his system, but when he lets out a deep breath, it abates. Somewhat.

 

“Natasha will figure it out,” he puts in. Clint looks even more relieved by that statement.

 

“Nat’s never met a problem she couldn’t solve,” he agrees.

 

Bucky is watching them curiously. His markings having shifted colors—from orange to yellow to teal and back to orange again—throughout the course of the conversation. Steve has seen Clint notice, his eyes lingering every time the colors shift, but he hasn’t asked—he’s got a better hold of diplomacy than he usually does, or than Steve did when faced with an unbearably attractive alien man and the loss of his usual filter.

 

“Tony is our engineer,” Steve tells Bucharius. “He fixes the technology on the ship,” he adds when the translator fails to make an attempt at translating “engineer.”

 

“What is your duty?” Bucky asks Clint.

 

“Pilot,” Clint says with a cocky grin. “I steer the ship and make sure we don’t crash and blow up. Also, I sometimes help out with security.”

 

Bucharius lights up, more yellow than orange—definitely happiness, Steve decides. “A fellow warrior!”

 

Clint’s cocky grin turns into a more genuine smile. “Yeah, so is Thor. To be honest, so is this guy,” he says before pointing at Steve with his good hand, “but he’s more bogged down with the duties of being captain these days.”

 

Bucharius glances at Steve, markings flashing pink. “I am unsurprised to hear that,” he says to Clint. “And I am excited to meet Thor,” he adds, which reminds Steve, who realizes he’s been distracted from the mission.

 

“We should head in,” he says, and he motions first at Clint, who’s still the closest to the open doorway.

 

The inside of the greenhouse is much the same as the ones he and Bucky have visited in this search. The key difference is, of course, Thor, who is seated near the left side of the room, his bulk taking up much of the space in between plants. “Captain!” he greets jovially, despite where his ankle is propped on what Steve suspects is the bag of nonperishable foodstuffs, which they must have managed to scavenge from the wreck.

 

“Thor,” Steve greets, allowing a smile to grace his face. “I’m glad to see you in one piece.”

 

“It would take more than a shuttle crash to grievously injure me!” Thor declares. “As you well know.”

 

Steve laughs softly. “I guess I do now,” he allows. “How do you feel?”

 

“Like I could battle a host of Hydrans.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes at the stubbornness. “Will you allow Clint and I to help you? The walk back to the settlement of the people that found me is long, and we must return my companion to his people.”

 

Thor’s eyes turn to Bucharius, not noticing him for the first time—Thor is too perceptive for that—but giving him his full attention now. It’s a compliment, of sorts, that Thor felt comfortable not watching him closely; it’s a trust in Steve’s judgement that warms Steve inside, as well as a positive first judgement of Bucky’s character.

 

“Greetings, my new friend,” Thor welcomes in his deep and melodic voice. “I thank you for your aid in our captain’s mission to locate us after we were separated.”

 

Bucharius looks nervous for a moment—Thor’s sincerity can be a lot to handle, Steve knows from experience, but it’s always the good kind of overwhelming, which is part of what makes him a go-to for diplomatic missions—before inclining his head and saying, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well. I have heard that you are the best warrior on your crew; I would be honored to hear some of your tales.”

 

Thor smiles widely. “You are a fellow warrior, are you not? I can see it in your bearing,” he says, making Steve feel inadequate for _not_ noticing it himself. “We shall have much to talk about.”

 

Bucky’s markings are bright yellow through and through—not pink, Steve notes, as they so often are around him, which gives him things to think about.

 

But perhaps not now.

 

“We should sleep early,” he says. “We’ll need to head out at daybreak.”

 

“You got it, Cap,” Clint says with a lazy salute. He sprawls on the sandy patches of earth in between the more fertile ground from which the plants grow. He’s asleep in moments.

 

“You do not fall asleep that quickly,” Bucky notes.

 

“Clint’s unique.”

 

Bucky looks dubious, but he nods anyway.

 

“I will take first watch,” Thor offers. “I need less sleep than you.”

 

Steve thinks about how little actual watching they did when it was just two of them, trusting whatever forces guide the universe to protect them out of necessity, and feels a bit of relief. “Thank you.”

 

Thor waves away his thanks. “I have done little but sit and sleep. The Hawk-Eyed One has been awake nearly since we crashed.”

 

Steve feels a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth and creasing his brow, but he isn’t necessarily surprised. Clint doesn’t do well with feeling helpless or waiting to be rescued.

 

Steve and Bucky move to a patch of sand a small distance from Clint and Thor, and the size of the open space is small enough to necessitate them laying pressed against one another.

 

“I like them,” Bucky says quietly. “They seem like good men. Like you.”

 

Steve feels warmth spread through his chest, tingling down his arms in a way he’s not altogether familiar with. He’d be uncomfortable with it, if it wasn’t such a comforting feeling. “I’m glad you found me,” Steve says quietly. He’s aware Thor can probably hear them, just as he would be able to hear Thor or Clint with his own enhanced hearing. But he knows Thor can be discreet, and he wouldn’t listen in on purpose.

 

Of course, Steve doesn’t know why these words feel so much like a confession of something more.

 

Or… maybe he does. Maybe he does, but he shouldn’t.

 

“I’m glad it’s you who found me,” he clarifies after a moment. “I’m glad it’s you who’s here with me.”

 

Bucky’s markings are glowing that pale pink, the color they only seem to be for Steve, and he’s trying very hard not to read into that fact. “Me too,” he says simply after few moments.

 

Steve turns on his side to look at him, and Bucky mirrors the movement. His eyes are same blue as ice, shining in the dark, but there’s something warm about them anyway.

 

Before he can convince himself not to, Steve tentatively holds out his hand in the space between them.

 

Bucky’s eyes glance down at it, and then his gaze returns to Steve’s, searching. After a moment that lasts half an eternity, he reaches out and tangles their fingers together, Steve’s unmarked skin blocking out the pink light where their hands meet. The light, the darkness, and the pink-tinted shadows all twine together in a way that looks like art.

 

Steve’s eyes are riveted on the sight, and he falls asleep still staring, still in awe, still warm down to his bones despite the chill of the ground against his side.

 

\--

 

When he wakes the next morning, Bucky is awake beside him, and they are no longer holding hands. Steve feels lost and a little hurt, but only for a moment; then he reminds himself that romancing someone who is from a planet that they’re trying to establish diplomatic contact with, while acting as a representative of his entire Federation, is not a good idea.

 

So, you know, it still _hurts,_ but at least the logical side of his brain, the part that got him to the point in his career where he captains a starship and has a glowing record and is in command of the longest exploratory mission to date, is happy.

 

At least he’s used to ignoring his heart.

 

(He ignores the voice in his head that says usually his heart doesn’t put up this much of a fight.)

 

“Is it light yet?” Steve asks, his voice still sleep-rough and soft.

 

“Almost,” Bucky says just as quietly. “I took over watch so Thor could sleep.”

 

Steve feels something warm zing through him at the thought of Bucky fitting in so effortlessly with his men, his _friends,_ but he just nods and says, “Thank you.”

 

Not for the first time, he’s glad he doesn’t have markings to give away his confusing feelings.

 

He could be weird about it, or he could try to be normal (whatever that means), and he goes for the latter. “Want to practice languages again?”

 

By the time the sun begins to creep over the horizon, Bucky’s definitely learned at least three new phrases, and Steve’s maybe got a couple of words down.

 

 _God,_ he thinks, _Natasha would love him._

 

But how his best friend would feel about Bucky is irrelevant, because she’ll probably never meet him, and Steve needs to be realistic with himself and acknowledge the fact that this friendship they’ve built won’t last. Steve might see him every few years for the next couple of decades, if diplomatic relations between Bucky’s people and Steve’s are established, but even that is optimistic.

 

 _Don’t get attached,_ his brain tells him in Natasha’s voice.

 

He’s a little worried that it’s too late for that, though. When Bucky manages to get through a basic conversation with Steve in Standard and smiles so brilliantly that he could rival the sun, Steve _knows_ it’s too late.

 

They wake Thor and Clint—the former rising easily and affable as ever, the latter grumpy and alert but notably displeased about it—and pour over the map while Steve’s men eat their meagre breakfast. The sun is just past the horizon when they set out, and Steve is relieved to have a safe place to return to, even if they’re going to have to trust Bucky’s people and rely on their hospitality until Natasha can figure out a way to get them back to the ship.

 

He doesn’t know what the problem with the shuttles is, but he knows theirs shouldn’t have crashed. Yeah, they’ve been on a space mission for a couple of years longer than average, but they had their last check-in at a SHIELD port planet less than a year ago, and the shuttles are sturdy, made to last.

 

So, something must have gone wrong, and it must have affected all of the shuttles, if Natasha hasn’t come for them yet. Which means at best, she could come for them at any minute, and at worst, they could have to wait for SHIELD to send another ship with shuttles that aren’t compromised.

 

(He very carefully ignores the other, even worse worst-case scenario, in which SHIELD doesn’t want to risk another ship this far out in uncharted space and leaves them behind—for years, for decades, forever. He knows all too well that they’ll do what they feel is necessary for the greater good, even if it means sacrificing Steve, their most famous captain and their most expensive experiment and the only one of his kind.

 

But he’s not thinking about it. So, it’s fine.)

 

Thor and Bucky pass the time trading tales, Clint jumping in with his own every one in a while. Steve… broods; that’s the only word for it, but after a while he allows Thor and Clint to goad him into sharing a few of his own tales.

 

If Bucky’s colors are yellow through and through, except when Steve talks, and then they’re pink, well. Steve’s not reading into it.

 

They stop early at the furthest greenhouse, the last one before the flat expanse of desert between them and the caverns that lead to Bucky’s city. Steve wants to push on, but he can see a slight clench to Clint’s jaw that gives away the pain he’d never admit to feeling, and he trusts Bucky when he says they don’t want to be stuck out in the desert at night.

 

There’s little excuse to sleep inches away from Bucky this night, but when the darkness falls, they resume the same positions, and their hands once again find each other’s.

 

Steve wakes in the night to the howling of the wind, louder than any wind he’s ever heard.

 

“Storm?” he asks as he opens his eyes and finds Bucky, the only source of light in the darkness. Even the stars have been blotted out.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

 

The structure shakes and shudders around them, and Steve can’t keep his heart rate from picking up slightly. “Are we safe here?”

 

“Yes,” Bucky promises. “Go back to sleep.” It’s a suggestion, not a command, but Steve shakes his head anyway.

 

“Won’t be able to sleep through the noise,” he says. “Did you sleep yet?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. Steve notices, now that he’s coming alert, that his colors are teal—rarely a positive indicator, if Steve remembers correctly.

 

He thinks about letting it go. But he’s awake now, and they’re _friends._ Just because Steve might have _feelings,_ feelings he shouldn’t have, feelings that might not be entirely one-sided… it doesn’t change the fact that he cares about Bucky, that he wants to know what’s on his mind when he can’t sleep in the middle of the night. “What are you thinking?” he asks, because he didn’t get where he is now by not asking questions.

 

Bucky is quiet for long moments—so many moments, in fact, that as they drag on Steve becomes convinced that he won’t answer. And then he says, “Tell me about your other friends.”

 

It’s not an answer, but Steve gets the feeling that it’s not quite the non sequitur it seems, either. “Okay,” he agrees easily. There’s so much of himself that he can’t afford to give, not really—but this part of himself he can share.

 

He talks about Natasha’s resolve and her fierceness; about Tony’s manic genius; about how Bruce somehow ended up assisting the CMO, Helen Cho, on Steve’s crew, when all he really wanted to do was be a researcher, because he cared so much about taking care of everyone. He talks about Thor’s brother Loki, who is a genius strategist but too fond of playing pranks to be entirely reliable; and about his other best friend, Sam, who is their primary pilot and has a friendly rivalry with Clint.

 

“They sound like good people,” Bucky says. His voice sounds almost wistful.

 

“They’re the best people,” Steve agrees easily. “I wouldn’t trade any of them. We’re not the most ordinary crew, but we’re better for it, I think.”

 

“Will I meet any of them?”

 

Steve considers that. “I hope so,” he says at last. “Some of them, anyway, when they come to get us. Sam will have to stay, because we have Clint, and Natasha’s supposed to stay, but I doubt that will stop her from coming so she can tell us off for getting hurt. Bruce might come, because they don’t know if we’re injured. Tony might send the genius kid he’s training, Peter, in case anything goes wrong again.” He shrugs. He tries to picture them coming to rescue him, but some part of him can’t. That feels too much like hope, and Steve is ruthless in his practicality. “That’s if they can even come for us,” he whispers, speaking his fears aloud for the first time.

 

“Why wouldn’t they?”

 

Steve shrugs. “The admiralty—the people in charge of us and our mission—might tell them not to. They might not be able to fix whatever went wrong with the shuttles. There’s always a risk, with every mission, that we could be lost or killed… I don’t know.”

 

“They will come for you,” Bucky tells him.

 

Steve smiles wanly. “You can’t know that.”

 

“I do,” Bucky counters quietly, voice firm and sure.

 

“How?”

 

“Because I would come for you.”

 

It’s too close to the admission Steve is avoiding, and he ruthlessly attempts to ignore the warmth he feels at the words. He says, “Okay,” and knows it isn’t enough. But it will have to be.

 

They don’t speak again until the storm is over, but Steve feels more relaxed when it has passed. He so rarely gives voice to his fears, really only ever shares them with Natasha, and even then, only sometimes, so the light feeling that gentles him back to sleep for the last few hours before dawn is foreign.

 

Dawn brings with it a quiet peace, a lull in the storm of Steve’s emotions. It seems to have come at a cost, though, because he can’t help but notice that today, Bucky is more withdrawn. He still talks with Thor, now asking endless questions about Asgard and its people, and he wields a faux-innocent sarcasm to match Clint’s endless snark, but underneath it all, he’s… off.

 

That, and his colors are blue, through and through. It doesn’t take much thinking to figure out that they’re for some kind of sadness Steve can’t touch.

 

They reach the caves back to Bucky’s home settlement just before nightfall, Thor’s stride getting surer as his ankle heals despite the amount of walking he’s done on it—Steve knows Asgardians are hardy, but it’s a relief to see it nonetheless—and they decide to stop and sleep rather than push through.

 

There’s enough open space tonight that Steve has no excuse to huddle close to Bucky.

 

He falls asleep a few feet away from him instead, a gap that feels like a chasm miles wide, his hand curled around the empty space where Bucky’s hand should be.

 

\--

 

There couldn’t be a greater difference between when Steve woke up the day before, light and refreshed, and the way he wakes up now, heavy and with a deep-seated ache that is only partly physical.

 

Thor’s eyes are better than Steve’s and Clint’s human ones, and he tasks himself with guiding Clint, “as a repayment for using you as a crutch, my friend,” leaving Steve with Bucky once more.

 

He feels the same as the blue that Bucky still emanates; the pleasant tingle of warmth that’s caused by Bucky taking his hand doesn’t even begin to combat the sadness he can admit, if only to himself, is a result of his pining.

 

It’s just that he’s never _felt_ like this before; he’s never wanted someone so entirely, not just physically but spiritually, wanted to know _everything_ about them and hold them close and cherish them. He’s never felt a pull this strong toward someone; attraction he can confront, can indulge in or brush aside, but this? He’s at a loss; he doesn’t know how to deal with it; he can barely think straight half the time because his mind is caught up wanting something he can’t have, wanting it with his entire being.

 

So, the trip is uneventful, which is good, because Steve barely notices the time pass as they slowly, steadily make their way through the dark caves.

 

The settlement, when they come upon it, is just as beautiful as Steve remembers—even more so, now that he is less uncertain and doesn’t have to worry about Clint and Thor and whether or not they’re alive. It’s fitting, he thinks, that Bucky comes from a place as beautiful as this.

 

They don’t have long to wait before Bucky’s sister comes rushing out to meet them.

 

It takes a moment for Steve to realize she’s not looking at her brother, though, but at _him._

 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, stepping forward to meet her and putting a hand on her arm.

 

She ignores him, looking instead at Steve. “Your people are here.”

 

He tilts his head, confused. “Yeah,” he says, gesturing at Clint and Thor. “I found them.”

 

She shakes her head then, the color of her markings flashing a bright scarlet. “No, not them,” she says. “The others.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this one up a little early, because it was that or risk being late with it, but I'll try to get back on schedule. Next one will go up on/around June 21.


	3. Cosmic Love

 

_“I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too / so I stayed in the darkness with you”_

 

Rebecara guides the four of them along a path Steve has walked before. The enter the Elder’s audience chamber and Steve’s eyes are instantly roving around the room, seeking.

 

They catch on a flash of bright red, and his muscles, tense with anticipation, relax in unison.

 

A small smile curls the corners of his mouth, even as he says, “You shouldn’t be here, Natasha.”

 

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s Acting Captain Romanoff to you.”

 

Steve laughs. “That’s fair,” he allows. “Can I reclaim my command, or are you going to fight me for it?”

 

She spends a few moments considering, her eyes lingering not only on Steve, but also on Bucky, Clint, and Thor each in turn. “I suppose you deserve it,” she allows after a moment. “Besides, being captain is too much work.”

 

It’s a lie and they both know it. She’s the sole reason Steve hasn’t cracked under the weight of command after all of these years, in a situation that becomes more dangerous with each week that they venture farther out into unexplored space, with each encounter that they have with vessels from the Hyrdans’ fleet. With each person they lose.

 

She’s put in just as much work as Steve has keeping everyone as safe as they can, not to mention keeping the admiralty happy enough to give them what they need, when they need it.

 

Steve might be their golden boy, but Natasha has their grudging respect. It’s the reason they make such a good team.

 

Steve, resigning himself to his captain’s duties once more, turns to the Elders. “I appreciate your cooperation in helping me locate and recover my missing men,” he tells them. “I also appreciate your hospitality toward the other members of my crew; I trust they have returned it in kind.”

 

It would be a question, but it isn’t. Natasha is a flawless diplomat when the occasion calls for it, and she’s more than forceful enough to keep the others in line.

 

“Your people are welcome,” the purple Elder says, which is more than Steve was expecting. “Your Commander has hinted that there is more that you want from us than this, though.”

 

Steve cuts a glance at Natasha, brief, before returning his attention to the Elders. “We simply wish to learn about your people and share the knowledge of our own. We hail from a united group of planets who all strive for the common good of our peoples.”

 

“You wish for us to join your SHIELD Federation,” the red Elder says—well, sneers.

 

Steve feels his hackles rise, but he swallows down his own angry response. “We wish only to extend an invitation to you, that you may build a relationship with us in any capacity you desire.”

 

“What could convince us to do that?”

 

“Trade. Technology. Travel. Protection.”

 

“What could you protect us from that we could not protect ourselves?” the orange Elder asks.

 

“How do we know that we do not need to protect ourselves from you?” the red Elder adds.

 

Steve can feel this situation rapidly escalating out of his control. “Our mission is only to protect peaceful peoples and promote sustainability and growth.”

 

“You did not answer my question,” the orange Elder points out.

 

Steve hesitates. “There is a race united in an attempt to destroy innocent life and mine planets for their resources. The Hydrans. They are our sworn enemies.”

 

“Would forming an alliance with your Federation not make us targets for them?”

 

Natasha jumps in here with a firm shake of her head. “No. They attack all people indiscriminately. They would hurt you for the joy of causing pain and steal that which you hold dear. They seek only to advance their own interests.”

 

“We must discuss,” the purple Elder cuts in before the others can comment. “We will reconvene tomorrow. For tonight, you may share an empty residence in town. Bucharius and Rebecara will stay with you to make certain that your needs are met.”

_And to watch us,_ Steve thinks, but he nods. “We gratefully accept your hospitality.”

 

He retreats away from the Elders then, Natasha at his side, his crew following behind. He leaves Bucky and Rebecara to speak with them in private.

 

Finally free of his most immediate duties, he turns his eyes back to the other members of his crew who have joined Natasha on her rescue mission. “I’m impressed you held your tongue,” he tells Tony.

 

“You were doing fine talking yourself in circles without my help, Cap.”

 

Steve huffs but doesn’t disagree. “You shouldn’t be here either.”

 

“What are you going to do, court martial me?”

 

“I just might,” Steve tells him sternly, as if they don’t both know that it’s an empty threat. He looks to Natasha and asks, “who has the conn?”

 

“Sam,” she tells him, chin angled out just slightly in a way that communicates clearly, _what are you going to do about it?_

“Good,” he allows. He contemplates saying hello to Bruce, but the other man is focused on examining Clint’s arm, Thor hovering anxiously beside him. Best to wait.

 

His eyes, unbidden, find Bucky across the room. He doesn’t know what the Elders are saying, and he respects their right to privacy… but also, he _really_ wants to know.

 

“Who’s that then?” Natasha asks, voice quiet. Steve glances back to see that Tony has wandered off to poke and prod at Bruce and Clint and Thor, possibly less out of interest than out of a latent survival instinct, if Steve is right in his suspicions and Natasha death glared him away so she could have a private conversation.

 

Steve sighs. “The man who rescued me.”

 

“He have a name?”

 

“Bucharius.”

 

“Ah, the man they mentioned, then.” When he glances at her, her eyes are no longer on him—they’re on Bucky, appraising. “What’s he like?”

 

“God, where to start,” Steve breathes out. “He’s… smart as hell, and strong, and a warrior for his people, but also…” Steve casts about for the right word. “He’s kind.”

 

Natasha purses her lips, returning her heavy gaze to meet Steve’s eyes. “You deserve good things,” she tells him after a moment.

 

He laughs, a little bitter and a lot fond. He wasn’t trying to fool her, but sometimes it’s a comfort to be seen through so easily, to be known. “That doesn’t mean I can always have them.” She levels him with the death glare, and he rolls his eyes. “You more than anyone know that.”

 

“I do,” she agrees easily. “And that means I more than most know not to waste opportunities for happiness.”

 

“What do you want me to do, Natasha?”

 

She considers him. She’s contemplating, he knows, what words will cut to the core of him, and he braces himself. “Be honest about what you want. Take what you _can_ have and forget the rest for now.”

 

Steve narrows his eyes. “I’m a strategist, Nat; I can’t just forget that actions have consequences.”

 

“So does inaction.” She turns away at that, clearly done with the conversation for now. Steve gives her another moment to change her mind, even though he knows she won’t, before he sighs deeply and goes to check up on the rest of his wayward crew.

 

\--

 

Bucky and his sister lead them out of the Elders’ chambers and back through the settlement toward their temporary quarters.

 

Steve is surprised when they set out and Rebecara links her arm through his, pulling him along to lead the group.

 

But, well, she’s Bucky’s sister. So he ignores Natasha’s smirk and Bucky’s glower and goes along with it.

 

“You have to tell me all about your trip,” she says.

 

“It wasn’t very eventful,” Steve tells her, because the only other option is to say, _I might have fallen in love with your brother but it’s fine, everything is fine._

 

“If you say so.” But she doesn’t push him, instead telling him about the antics of her children in the past week.

 

“Will they be okay without you for the night?”

 

“Of course,” she replies. “They have the rest of the family.”

 

That’s a nice thought, albeit one that remains foreign to Steve.

 

He realizes, in the brief silence between them, that Natasha has likewise commandeered Bucky. He wants to listen in on what they’re saying, but the words are quiet, and before he can pick them out over Thor, Clint, and Tony’s boisterous bickering, Rebecara speaks once more.

 

“How did your family unit function?”

 

Steve could tell her about how different cultures on Earth compose a family and handle child-rearing responsibilities. But he’s already thinking about his mother, so he says, “When I was growing up, it was just me and my mom.”

 

“No one to help her?” Rebecara asks. “Is that standard?”

 

“It’s not standard, but it’s not unusual.”

 

Rebecara shakes her head. “I cannot imagine looking after the children without help.”

 

“It was hard for her,” Steve admits. “Even as a kid, I could see that. But she was an amazing parent. She was my whole world.”

 

“What was her name?”

 

“Sarah.”

 

Rebecara smiles softly. “Beautiful.”

 

Steve nods, his throat tight with restrained memories and the ache of loss.

 

She gives him the gift of silence in which to compose himself as they walk the rest of the route. They reach the edge of the settlement, where a building looks like most of the others, but bare, no garden or greenery to decorate it. “You can have this building for as long as you stay,” Rebecara tells him.

 

Steve smiles wanly. “I doubt they want us to stay long.”

 

She tilts her head. “They are wary… but curious. I do not know what they will decide.”

 

Steve nods. “I can understand that.”

 

The others catch up to them then, Bucky and Natasha notably silent, providing a counterpoint to the others, who are still bickering away. Steve sometimes wonders how they can have so much to say to each other when they spend literally all of their time together; but then, maybe it’s just him who has trouble finding words.

 

Settling in to their quarters for the evening is easy. Bucky goes out to find them things like food and clothes—for which Steve is both excited and grateful and a little nervous, because, well, wearing revealing clothing—as they poke around and explore, Steve’s men—and Natasha—asking questions. Steve, for his part, can’t help but compare it to Bucky’s home, seeing only the blank spaces where pictures and toys should be—the signs of a life being lived.

 

There aren’t enough rooms for all of them to have one, not that any of them would be comfortable alone anyway.

 

Steve ends up with Natasha; Clint throws a smirk over his shoulder that clearly says, _she’s your problem this time,_ before heading off with Bruce, leaving Tony for Thor, who has the highest Tony-tolerance of them all. That leaves one room for Bucky and his sister, although Steve doubts they’ll both be asleep at the same time—there needs to be someone keeping watch, after all.

 

“I like him,” Natasha says, interrupting Steve’s thoughts.

 

Steve doesn’t know what to say. _Of course,_ because Bucky’s great, so of course she likes him; _I don’t care,_ because he’s allowed to have friends she doesn’t like, thank you very much; _good,_ because, for all that, she is his best friend and Bucky is _something_ and her approval has meaning that Steve doesn’t want it to have. “Yeah,” he ends up saying, just a word to fill the growing silence between them.

 

She smirks and stretches out on the nest of blankets. “Keep watch,” she commands, “I’ve barely slept more than an hour since you all went missing and command tried to say you were probably dead.”

 

“We should probably talk about that,” Steve points out. “Did you outright defy an order from the admirals?” If she did, he’ll need to start thinking up loopholes for dealing with that sooner rather than later.

 

“Not _outright,”_ she says, which is not reassuring in the slightest.

 

Steve sighs. “Whatever. Sleep. We can talk later.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” she says, satisfied.

 

Steve dozes next to her, sitting on the floor and leaning his back against the cool stone wall, more assured of their safety than the others are. He’s been among these people for long enough to know that they aren’t violent for the sake of violence—they’re good.

 

Maybe that’s his feelings for Bucky coloring his perception of everyone, but he doesn’t think so. He’s usually got a good sense of people.

 

He rouses when Natasha shoots upright an indistinct time later. “Nat,” he says at a normal volume.

 

Her eyes shoot over to meet his. He offers an arm and her hand clamps around his wrist like a vice. Slowly, her tense posture begins to melt by degrees. “Steve,” she says after a few minutes, shoulders no longer at the level of her chin, voice steady.

 

“I’m here.”

 

She nods once. After a few more moments she lets go of his wrist, and he rolls it, trying to get his circulation back to normal.

 

“I’m going to go check on the others,” he says, knowing that now what she needs more than anything else is time to rebuild her defenses unwatched. She nods, and he accepts it for the dismissal it is.

 

In one room, Thor rests with his ankle suspended on a pile of blankets, listening and nodding as Tony talks him through what Steve thinks, after listening for a few moments, is the shuttle situation. Asgard runs on a mix of science and magic that Thor insists is just advanced manipulation of cosmic forces in a way that Tony agrees Earth’s science should one day be able to emulate—it’s all beyond Steve, if he’s being completely honest—but Thor has always been enchanted by the ways in which Earth’s science has developed differently from Asgard’s.

 

Thor notices Steve in the doorway and gives him a brief nod, but doesn’t otherwise call attention to his presence. Tony, lost in his story and gesturing wildly with his hands, doesn’t notice Steve at all.

 

Steve leaves them to it.

 

In the next room, Bruce is awake and pouring over a tablet, making notes. Clint is passed out asleep, good arm thrown over Bruce’s legs where he sits beside him.

 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks quietly.

 

Bruce glances up at him and nods. “We’re fine, Cap.”

 

Steve nods and lingers, torn between asking Bruce to talk about what he’s reading and leaving them be. In the end, he decides to go, after tossing out a last, “Let me or Natasha know if anything comes up.” Bruce lazily salutes, not looking away from his tablet this time.

 

Out in the kitchen of the house, Steve finds Rebecara and Bucky talking quietly over the table.

 

“Hey,” Steve greets softly. He fumbles for the translator in his pocket and turns it on. “Everything okay?”

 

Rebecara shoots a meaningful look at Bucky, her colors a vibrant red in the dim light, and says, “Bucharius wants to show you something.”

 

“Okay?” Steve agrees hesitantly.

 

Bucky glares at his sister but nods at Steve. “She’ll watch after the others while we’re gone,” he tells Steve.

 

Steve hesitates. He shouldn’t leave his crew. He trusts them, but he doesn’t trust _everyone_ in their settlement, on the principle that it’s always better to be cautious.

 

“Go,” says Natasha from behind him, and Steve represses a surprised jerk only from long experience, because she’d absolutely found it hilarious to sneak up on him and make him jump when they first started serving together. “I’ll keep watch too.”

 

Steve glances at her, but the walls around her emotions are too steep right now, too recently- and well-constructed to see over or through. “You sure?”

 

“Yes.” She takes a few steps over to the table and taps Bucky’s arm. He instantly rises from his seat and offers it to her. She smiles at him, but Steve notes how it doesn’t reach her eyes—it’s going to be a long few hours, and he feels guilty leaving her like this, but…

 

Bucky steps in front of Steve, a question in his eyes, colors teal mixed with orange. “We don’t have to go anywhere.”

 

Steve caves at the hopeful expression Bucky’s trying so hard to hide. “No, it’s fine,” he says, hoping he’ll be correct in that. “Let’s go.”

 

\--

Steve changes quickly before they go, more than ready to be rid of his tattered uniform.

 

Bucky’s hand tangles with Steve’s before they’ve even left the house, fingers twining around his in the dim light of the hall. All of the teal (nervousness? apprehension?) had faded from his markings as soon as Steve agreed to follow him, but as their hands touch, Steve’s favorite pink begins to mix in with the orange instead.

 

An idle thought crosses Steve’s mind—that he wishes he had markings that could glow pink too, to show Bucky that what he’s feeling is something Steve returns, even if Steve isn’t ready to put words to it, even if he might not ever be able to—but he pushes it away.

 

He doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand, though. He’s just a man, after all; even his strength has limits.

 

They don’t speak more than a handful of words. They’re both aware, Steve thinks, of the painfully diminishing number of hours they have left to spend on the same planet, much less in one another’s company—there’s nothing to do but cherish them in quiet reverence.

 

Bucharius leads him through the vegetation and stone structures and honest to God magic that makes up his community, deeper into the natural caverns once more, the ones that exist so far in the mountain that civilization hasn’t claimed them.

 

The deeper they venture into the caverns, the more glowing crystals seem to emerge. “Are those…?” Steve asks in a hushed whisper.

 

“Yes,” Bucky tells him, and tugs him onward.

 

They come to such a narrow point that they have to turn sideways to squeeze through the gap in the stones, and then they’re in one of the most magnificent rooms Steve has ever seen.

 

There’s water, flowing across the stones and deeper into the mountain caverns, lit by crystals as multi-colored and -faceted as Bucky’s many moods. There’s the green of life around them, naturally cultivated, amongst the firmness and stubbornness of stone, and Steve thinks, _oh._ It’s _them,_ and he can’t help but say, “Bucky…”

 

It comes out a gasp, a prayer, a plea.

 

“Steve,” Bucky agrees, warmth and solidity next to him.

 

Steve looks at him, lit up by his own pink light and awash in the colors of the crystals that occupy the cavern, and he thinks, _fuck, I can’t—_

His hands find skin, where the markings of pure light and the bare, tan skin have the same texture, one resting against Bucky’s arm, holding where his own hand has come up to cup Steve’s jaw, and one curving around the nape of his neck.

 

 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes out, before he can stop himself, his fingers caressing the miles of skin before him.

 

“Steve,” Bucky agrees, a small smile on his lips before it drops. His eyes, though, are knowing. “Please?” he asks. Before Steve can wonder, can ask him to clarify, can deny that he understands, Bucky continues, "I want—just once—please,” and Steve physically can’t say no.

 

He just kisses him, deeply, and pours his entire heart into the act. He’ll say everything he can’t say aloud, here, in this beautiful place, in this beautiful moment, with this beautiful man… and it’ll have to be enough, won’t it?

 

Steve skims his fingers down, around, across Bucky’s skin. He never distinguishes a difference, with his sensitive fingertips, between the skin that’s like his and the skin that _glows,_ but he finds the spots that make Bucky gasp into his mouth, make him tangle his fingers into Steve’s hair and _pull._

 

Steve groans deeply into Bucky’s mouth, hands sliding down to find his hips and pull him close.

 

Bucky’s mouth slides down Steve’s jaw, sucking bruising kisses into the skin of his neck, and Steve groans. As if in response, Bucky bites down and Steve groans harder. “Fuck,” he breathes, and Bucky licks to soothe the bite mark he’s undoubtedly left behind. “Fuck,” Steve reiterates as his hips jerk forward, seeking contact.

 

The translator falls from his pocket, close enough to do its job, far enough to not be a bother.

 

More importantly, Steve’s dick grinds against a bulge in Bucky’s own shorts (or whatever else they are? Shorts is fine) and he groans again. “Are you--?” he asks, and loses track of the question as Bucky begins sucking a hickey into the pale skin at the base of his neck. “Can we--?” he tries again, only to lose the question once more in a moan, hips jerking forward.

 

He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a moment when Bucky drops to his knees, or maybe it’s just that all of his furtive, fervent prayers of the past weeks are being answered and it knocks him momentarily insensate, but then Bucky’s tongue finds his hipbone above the purple shorts he’s wearing and he suddenly isn’t nearly as grateful for, because they are _in the way,_ and— _oh—_

 

“What’s—?” Steve tries, and then, “Is this okay?”

 

Bucky nods, rising to kiss Steve’s lips once more. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, only it sounds reverent, and like a promise.

 

Steve is helpless but to agree. He’s never been this hard before; he’s dizzy with it. “Yeah,” he breathes, before Bucky’s mouth captures his own, thumb circling his waistband and pressing _down_ over the mark on his hipbone that will hopefully turn into a bruise. Steve moans again—he can’t hold it back.

 

When Bucky pulls away, icy eyes dark, Steve can’t fathom why he might even try to hold anything back. “Fuck,” he breathes again, but this time it’s reverential. He chokes back the “I love you” that his entire being wants to voice, and lurches forward to capture Bucky’s mouth in a kiss instead.

 

They kiss for a few moments before Bucky pulls back, eyes roving over Steve’s skin.

 

Ever sensitive to attention, Steve’s blush spreads, and he becomes even more embarrassed, and the blush spreads further—a vicious cycle. He tries to draw Bucky into a kiss, but the other man isn’t having it, looking enraptured by the spread of pink across Steve’s skin. “Bucky?” Steve asks, but the other man ignores him for the moment, leaning forward instead to kiss across Steve’s cheeks and down his neck, across his chest and lower, following the pinkened skin. “What—?” Steve tries to ask, but his breath hitches on a sigh of pleasure as Bucky’s lips ghost across his right nipple, sending a shock of pleasure through him that resonates right at the base of his dick.

 

Bucky’s mouth begins sucking and Steve feels his body flushing further, pleasure intensifying, as he cries out, doing his best to muffle the sound. “Fuck, Bucky,” he groans, and Bucky’s responding noise sends vibrations that reverb from his nipple straight to his cock.

 

“I love your colors,” Bucky says, all in one breath, in between kisses across Steve’s chest.

 

Steve would ask, but Bucky swipes his hand from Steve’s cheek down and _down,_ and Steve realizes. “My blush?”

 

“It’s like mine.” Bucky bites and sucks across his ribs, leaving marks in his wake. Steve feels his head fall back, his mind only just hanging on to the words. “Your colors.”

 

“That’s not—” Steve starts, and curses, and loses track of the words. He finds them again, in time to say, “That’s not what they mean.”

 

Bucky pulls back, on his knees now, eyes somehow dark and light and _everything,_ and he asks, “What do they mean?”

 

Steve realizes he’s right, that _is_ what they mean, just as Bucky dives back in without an answer, lips and teeth finding skin and leaving marks behind.

 

Steve’s, well, he’s not inexperienced. He’s had sex. He’s had _good_ sex.

 

He’s never had sex like this.

 

He’s never been so done in by the simple act of a lover leaving bite marks on his skin, of the feeling of being possessed, being owned…

 

…being cherished, every kiss an act of worship that he can’t comprehend.

 

His hands tangle in Bucky’s hair, tugging every time his hips thrust forward of their own accord, seeking friction that they’re being denied.

 

Eventually, through the haze, he processes something. He doesn’t think much of it, until Bucky’s tongue drags along his waistband, and he thinks, _what?_

And then Bucky’s nimble fingers draw his shorts down, hands cold against Steve’s warm skin, and his breath ghosts hot against Steve’s length, and Steve forgets words entirely.

 

“Please,” he begs, and tilts his head forward long enough to glance down, to meet Bucky’s eyes.

 

_Fuck._

The sight is almost enough to wreck him, Bucky on his knees, pupils blown but ringed by that bright blue, bottom lip bright red from being bitten by both of them in turns, mouth inches away from Steve’s length.

 

“I can’t—” Steve starts to say, unsure how he’ll finish the sentence, but it doesn’t matter, because Bucky’s mouth moves inexorably forward and Steve’s mouth goes dry, his words lost. Bucky’s lips wrap around the head of Steve’s cock, and he’s lost, unable to think of anything that isn’t _this exact feeling,_ in _this exact moment._ Bucky sucks, his cheeks going hollow, and Steve _sobs._

Bucky seems to take that as an endorsement, moving down as he sucks, cool hands coming to hold the base of Steve’s cock as he engulfs it in increments.

 

Steve’s fingers tangle in Bucky’s hair, just holding, unsure whether to hold him close or pull him away because it’s _so much, too much—_

He feels Bucky’s tongue against the underside of his cock, and it’s… different? Better, definitely, but? _Something._

He tugs at Bucky’s hair, just once, and Bucky pulls away, looking up with wide eyes and blown pupils. “Yeah?” he asks, in Steve’s language, even this far gone, and Steve groans before he pulls himself together.

 

“Should we… talk? About… our differences?”

 

Bucky shrugs even as his markings glow a brighter pink, catching Steve’s gaze, making the thought run across his mind that he’d like to have the time to trace their paths with his tongue, take his time—

 

“We can figure it out,” Bucky offers, and as his tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip, Steve notices what he’d felt, what he hadn’t noticed before, what are… maybe new? The ridges that line its surface.

 

He nods helplessly. “Yeah, that,” he agrees, fingers carding through Bucky’s hair, and Bucky’s grin is brighter than any of the crystals in the cavern.

 

Bucky swallows him down without warning, tongue curling around his length, the ridges Steve can absolutely feel catching against the vein on the underside of his cock, and he comes without warning, fingers tugging at Bucky’s hair even as he resists the urge to haul him closer.

 

Bucky swallows around him, throat working, and Steve’s at a loss for words, yanking with insistence now, until Bucky releases him with a wet noise and rises, surging forward until his lips meet Steve’s own.

 

Steve floats, hazy, in the biting kisses until he doesn’t have to lock his knees to remain upright, and then he breaks away, his cheek falling against Bucky’s, his breaths short and panting. “That was amazing,” he says.

 

He feels Bucky’s answering grin against his cheek. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” he agrees, kissing across Bucky’s cheek, down his neck, sucking a return mark into Bucky’s skin.

 

He feels the answering groan light his veins on fire, which shouldn’t feel as _good_ as it does, and he knows, in that moment, that he’s done for.

 

But if he’s done for, he’s going to enjoy as much of this as he can. “Can I…?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

 

He does what he’s wanted to do all along, traces the glowing tattoo-like markings with his tongue, follows them down to Bucky’s own waistband and back up. His hands, meanwhile, long settled at Bucky’s hips and holding him steady, begin to move, thumbs tracing lower. “Still okay?”

 

Bucky nods, his teeth biting into his lip and stifling any noises he might make, and Steve takes that as a challenge.

 

He feels the rough pads of his fingers catch and scrape against the smooth skin of Bucky’s stomach as he drags them downward, catching against the fabric of his deep red shorts and casting them down, out of the way, in favor of _more important things._

 

He drops down and kisses across Bucky’s hipbones, analogous to his own, a stark similarity in the face of the potential for sharp difference.

 

Steve kisses, bites, and licks his way lower, unsure what he’ll encounter, but game to, as Bucky had suggested before, figure things out as he goes.

 

The first thing he notes, when his eyes finally catch on Bucky’s swollen length—he’s unable to keep his tongue from flicking out, curling around the head and licking up, tasting what it can—is that it’s _long._ It’s an average width, but, fuck, there’s no way Steve could even try to fit the entire thing into his mouth, even if he let the head press back into his throat—and suddenly that’s the _only_ thing he wants.

 

He sucks the head into his mouth, hands finding Bucky’s hips to hold them back as they attempt to buck—hah—forward. He takes his time, lips sliding leisurely along his length, catching upon ridges that Steve wouldn’t find on a human, but aren’t necessarily _unusual_ for a non-human. They’re just different enough from anything Steve’s ever experienced to be exciting, to make him wonder what they would feel like _if—_

Bucky’s cock brushes against Steve’s throat, and he hollows his cheeks, sucking at the same time as his tongue swirls and catches along the ridges on the underside of his dick, and Steve’s groan matches Bucky’s own breathless noise.

 

Steve continues sucking as he pulls back, mouth yanked free of the tip of Bucky’s dip with an obscene pop, and he sucks in a breath of air through his mouth, exhales on the words, “I wish you could fuck me.”

 

There’s no way Bucky knows those words in Standard; luckily, the translator does its job and translates his meaning.

 

Bucky stills, hands cupping Steve’s jaw, tilting his head up. “I could?” he offers.

 

Steve thinks about it. Thinks about how hard it’s going to be to survive just this, and how much harder it would be to survive anything more.

 

“Next time,” he says, words slipping out before he can stop them, and he ignores Bucky’s attempt to tug him up, swallowing down his dick instead.

 

Bucky’s hands tangle in his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel the pressure, a perfect counterpoint to his hazy focus on the taste of Bucky and the sensation of ridges against his tongue as he moves, finding a rhythm.

 

It isn’t long before Bucky comes down his throat, liquid a hot counterpoint to his icy hands in Steve’s hair, and Steve thinks his hands feel the base of Bucky’s cock pulse for a few moments before subsiding.

 

He pulls back, blinks up at Bucky, dazed and pleased. “Good?”

 

Bucky sinks down onto his knees, head falling to rest in the curve of Steve’s shoulder, hands sliding down from his hair to his waist. “So good,” he agrees, pressing open mouthed kisses across Steve’s neck and shoulder. “So, so good.”

 

Steve hums and enjoys the moment, lazy and content. An indeterminable time later, hours, days, years, eons, (only minutes?) Steve comes down from the rush, Bucky in his arms, pink light illuminating his own skin, and he holds his tongue once more before he can say, “I love you.”

 

But he thinks it. Consciously, fully present in his own mind, he thinks it.

 

It’s not his first mistake. It’s not even his last.

 

\--

 

They’re interrupted, minutes into the afterglow of the most spectacular sexual experience Steve has ever had, by Bucky’s sister.

 

Rebecara comes rushing in, unbothered by their nakedness, and says, “The city has been attacked.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're over halfway there! This chapter was a bit shorter, but also explicit, so maybe that made up for it? 
> 
> AND THAT ART?! ISN'T IT AMAZING?? I'VE BEEN LOOKING AT IT DAILY FOR MONTHS AND IT HASN'T GOTTEN ANY LESS AMAZING AND INSPIRING. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading, kudos-ing, and commenting! Y'all have been making us very happy. <3


	4. Rewrite the Stars

 

“ _no one can stop me if I decide / that you’re my destiny”_

 

Steve’s men, and Natasha, are waiting for them in the chamber where the Elders convene. Bucky goes to them directly, after giving Steve one last glance, and Steve goes to his people.

 

He feels a rush of gratitude for Natasha’s insistence on breaking the rules and following him down onto this planet, because he knows how in the dark he’d likely end this encounter without her backing him up. But where Steve can only ask for answers and offer aid, Natasha will _demand_ answers and get results.

 

“What do we know?” he asks.

 

“Literally nothing,” Tony says. “They won’t even let us near them in case we use our tech to listen in on their conversation.”

 

Steve nods. “Okay,” he agrees. “Plan of action?”

 

“We do whatever they say, if it means getting the hell off of this planet,” Tony says.

 

“We find out as much as we can and make decisions based on that knowledge,” Natasha counters.

 

“We do our best to assist them in whatever harm has befallen them,” Thor insists.

 

Steve looks to Bruce, who shrugs, and then Clint, who says, “It’s your call, Cap.”

 

Steve takes a deep breath, pushes away the feelings that might complicate his decision, and considers. “Combination approach,” he decides after a few moments. “Rebecara said they’ve been attacked—we need to find out by what, or by whom, because it’s possible that we might get attacked as well if we leave. We can offer to help them, but if they refuse our help, we don’t want to insist—it might put us in a bad position with them, and our end goal has always been to leave on the best terms possible. Worst case scenario, we fight our way out, but I don’t think it will come to that.”

 

They all nod, looking like they agree even if they all aren’t necessarily happy about it. Thor clearly wants to help no matter the personal cost, and Tony’s clearly worried that this situation is going to go from bad to worse and that they’ll get caught up in the crossfire. Steve sympathizes with both—one more than the other, if he lessens his iron hold on his _feelings—_ but he knows better than to try to make a call without any information.

 

They wait.

 

Steve tries, while they wait, not to think about his suspicions—that this might be their fault. That this might have to do with things he’s not supposed to know about, and that he’ll have to be careful in not giving away too much.

 

It seems like an approximate eternity passes before Rebecara comes over them. “The Elders want to speak with you,” she says, looking at Steve. He nods and gestures at the others, and she clarifies, “No, just you.”

 

_Well, fuck,_ Steve thinks, but he’s already discussed things with the others and knows where they stand—there’s no reason to put up a fight about this. “Okay,” he agrees.

 

Steve is unnerved to realize, as he nears them, that the Elders are all glowing red—some mixed with other colors, but none of them the differentiated colors Steve has become accustomed to.

 

It doesn’t seem like a good omen.

 

He nods his head in deferential respect, and when he looks back up, he notices their eyes tracking over his exposed skin. _Shit,_ he thinks, resisting glancing down at himself but _knowing_ his pale skin is bruised with love-bites. _Didn’t think that one through._

 

He fights back a blush of embarrassment and keeps his chin held high when he asks, “What has happened? How may we be of assistance?”

 

The Elder that Steve is accustomed to associating with their red markings seems to swell up, towering over him, just by a shift in their posture. It’s impressive—but Steve doesn’t give an inch. “You dare act like it is a coincidence that you, the first outsider from the stars, comes here, and shortly after more come and steal that which is most precious to us?”

 

Steve gleans two things from that. One, this is definitely about the crystals he’s not supposed to know about, and talking around that is going to be tricky. Two, the attackers came from off-planet; there are other races they _could_ have been, but when Steve’s crew just had a run-in with the Hydrans no more than two weeks ago, it seems like too much to hope that it isn’t them.

 

_Coincidence indeed,_ he thinks, and winces internally. Is it possible that they led the Hydrans here? He really should have gotten Natasha or Tony to fill him in on everything.

 

“I assure you that my people came only to initiate contact,” Steve tells them carefully, “but if our presence has caused any harm to befall your people, we will do everything in our power to remedy the situation.”

 

“Nothing you do can repair the damage that has been caused,” says the Elder that Steve is pretty sure normally glows purple—the reasonable one, he thinks. Now he’s not so sure—or else this situation really does have the potential to go very bad, very fast.

 

“I will do what I can to help,” Steve vows again. “But I need to know what that might be.”

 

“You would ask for our secrets, even after all of this?”

 

“No,” Steve denies. He wants to say, _I already know your secrets,_ but knows how very incorrectly that would be taken. “If you ask, we will leave this place and never return.”

 

He can’t help glancing at Bucky after he says it; he tells himself not to look, but he has to.

 

Bucky isn’t looking at any of them: his sister, the Elders, or Steve. He stares at the ground, jaw tight, markings deep blue.

 

Steve looks away.

 

“What if we ask for your help and then ask that, once it has been given, you leave us be?”

 

“I would do what was in my power to honor that.”

 

The Elder nods. “We know that they came and left in a ship different from the one your people arrived in, but we do not believe that they found their way here by chance. Return what they have taken from us, and we will talk with you then. If you cannot return what they have taken, we ask that you do not return at all.”

 

The box Steve has locked his heart up in and ruthlessly chained shut rattles in his chest. He does his best to ignore it. “I need to know what was taken in order to retrieve it.”

 

“Crystals,” the maybe-reasonable Elder tells Steve. “They are a source of energy on our planet, but they are also sacred to us.”

 

“Alright,” Steve nods. That’s honestly more than he thought they would tell him. “Is there anything else I should know?”

 

“They are volatile when not properly contained. You would not have long to find and return them before they began to release energy in a destructive fashion.”

 

Steve can tell they’re not saying something, but what they _are_ saying isn’t good. “How long?”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky look up. He says, “Longer if I went with you. I could stabilize the energy in the crystals.”

 

The Elders turn as one to consider him. Steve’s relieved to no longer be the object of their angry scrutiny, or he would be, if it didn’t mean Bucky suffering it now instead. “The same conditions would apply,” the deep red Elder tells him. “If you go with them, you return with the crystals, or you do not return at all.”

 

Steve swallows down a surge of anger and keeps his mouth shut, because nothing he can say will make this moment any better.

 

He just watches as Bucky looks them in the eye and says, “I accept these conditions.”

 

Steve can’t help but look to Bucky’s sister, to try to see what her expression can tell him. He expects her to look surprised, to look upset, but while her markings are blue, her expression is clear.

 

“Go, then,” one of the Elders says—Steve doesn’t know which one, doesn’t bother looking. At this point, he really doesn’t care. “If Captain Rogers will accept you?”

 

“I am grateful for any aid in returning what has been taken from you.” It’s a little vindictive, but Steve’s feeling _a lot_ vindictive, so he can’t help but feel that it’s what they deserve.

 

“Then you are dismissed. Go in peace, Captain Rogers.”

 

He’s not sure he’s ever heard a _go in peace_ sound so much like a _fuck you._

 

Torn between going to Bucky and not wanting to do so in front of the Elders, Steve settles for scooping up the translator and heading back over to where his crew are waiting impatiently.

 

“So?” Tony asks loudly when Steve’s still ten feet away.

 

Steve waits until he’s closer to talk, mostly to aggravate Tony. He wouldn’t, normally; he tries not to escalate tensions when they’re running high; but right now, he can admit he’s more than a little bit emotionally compromised and a lot looking to blow off steam.

 

That thought doesn’t quite draw him up short, but it does make him glance at Natasha. She has one eyebrow raised, but the curve of her mouth says she’s not going to fight him for command—yet. In total, it’s a _get your ass in gear, Rogers,_ so he takes a deep breath and says, “Hydrans stole something from them. We’re going to try to get it back.”

 

“Good,” Thor says decisively. Steve notes that no one else looks like they particularly agree.

 

“What’s the catch?” Clint asks, eyes sharp as ever.

 

“Oh, there’s more than one,” Steve says on a sigh. “The crystals we’re going after are volatile, apparently, so there’s that. They’re pissed as hell and think we led the Hydrans here—it looks like they’re split on whether they believe we did it intentionally—and they don’t want to see hide nor hair of us again if we don’t return their property.”

 

“We’ve faced worse odds,” Tony says after a moment, like he doesn’t want to admit it but also can’t help that he’s run the probabilities in his head and they’re in their favor.

 

Bucky appears at Steve’s side, then, and says, “I’ll meet you here soon.”

 

Before Steve can ask, he turns away, back toward where his sister is waiting, and Steve swallows down everything he might say that isn’t, “Okay.”

 

“Um, what?” It’s Bruce, of all people, who asks that.

 

“He’s coming with us, then,” Natasha says. It’s not a question.

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with a sigh. “He thinks he can help contain the crystals, keep them from blowing us up or whatever else it is they’re capable of.”

 

“That’s… good, right?” Bruce asks. “Only, you don’t seem thrilled about it.”

 

“They won’t take him back if we don’t get the crystals, either.”

 

Natasha’s gaze sharpens, her eyes on his for a moment before she looks away. “Well, then, we’ll just have to get the crystals.”

 

When she says it like that, firm, allowing no room for thoughts of failure, it almost seems like even the universe and the forces that guide it wouldn’t dare contradict her.

 

Steve knows, though, that things are never that easy.

 

\--

 

The shuttle is parked not far from the entrance of the caves. Steve’s heart does a little jump when Bucky stares at it with wide eyes, colors shifting from teal-blue to orange as his eyes drink it in.

 

The others pile in without stopping, Tony first in his eagerness to get back to the Avenger, but Bucky has stopped a few feet from the hatch. Steve halts next to him, almost close enough for their shoulders to brush.

 

He doesn’t know what he opens his mouth to say. It’s probably not what comes out, though. “You don’t have to come with us.”

 

Bucky turns to look at him, and the blue creeps back in among the orange. “I know,” he says after a few moments. “Doesn’t change the fact that I am.”

 

Steve wants to ask, _why,_ but now isn’t the time to push. They’re short enough on time as it is.

 

“Okay,” he says. “Then let’s go.”

 

\--

 

Bucky’s wonder doesn’t decrease when they reach the ship; if anything, it grows.

 

Steve tries to imagine what it looks like from his point of view, but it’s impossible. He’s been obsessed with starships since he was a child, was building models with tooth-picks before he could read. But he can tap into the wonder, if he thinks back to the way the idea of captaining a ship made him feel back when it was a dream rather than his actual life.

 

“So,” says a voice from where there’s a sliver of shadow in the corner of the shuttle bay. “Are we taking in stays now?”

 

Steve doesn’t bristle because giving a reaction is a sure-fire way to egg Loki on. He leaves responding to Thor, who drops a muscled arm over Loki’s slim shoulders and says jovially, “Well, they took you in, didn’t they?”

 

Loki rolls his eyes, but he’s mostly distracted from Bucky’s presence by his attempts to shove his brother’s bulk off of him—attempts that are all, Steve notes with distinct satisfaction, unsuccessful.

 

“We need to have a command meeting,” Natasha tells Steve. The words are undercut by her smile, clear and amused. “But you might want to change first, Captain.”

 

It figures Natasha was the first one brave enough to call him out on it. Steve closes his eyes for a moment, wondering what the chances are he can get through the ship without running into anyone in his mostly naked and distinctly love-bitten state, and then he opens them and nods.

 

“I’ll show Bucky to some of the guest quarters,” Natasha says. “We’ll figure out something more long-term, if…”

 

“If we need to,” Steve agrees.

 

Bucky, for his part, is sticking close to the shuttle, projecting nervousness in the face of everything new. Or maybe not every _thing_ that’s new, but every _one_ that’s new, for sure.

 

“Be nice,” Steve adds in an undertone to Nat before she can head over to collect the temporary addition to their crew.

 

“Always am.”

 

Steve shakes his head but lets her go.

 

He thinks he’s made a successful break for it, but Tony falls in step beside him halfway down the corridor, and Steve internally sighs.

 

“You wanna talk about it?”

 

Steve glances over at him. Tony’s got his hands shoved deep in his pockets, but his gaze is clear, mind, for once, not a million miles away as he multi-tasks and re-engineers the ship out from under them in the name of improvements and advancement and efficiency.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I just—nothing can come of this, right?”

 

“Seems like something could.” Tony isn’t advocating for or against it—he’s just calling it like it is.

 

It’s exactly what Steve needs, but it almost frustrates him more, the emotional distance when he’s so close to the clusterfuck he’s gotten himself into. “What, if I sabotage the mission? You said it yourself, we’ve faced worse odds.”

 

Tony nods after a moment. “Okay,” he agrees. “Have you talked to him about what he wants?”

 

“When would I have found the time?” Steve asks, weary.

 

“Maybe do that, then, before you decide anything one way or the other.”

 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t this a bit much, coming from you?”

 

Tony clutches at his chest, abruptly dramatic and silly once more. “Ouch, Cap, that hurts. See if I try to help you get your head in order next time.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Thank you, Tony,” he says dutifully, even though he’s not sure what he’s thanking Tony for. The advice is decent enough, but it’s more that Tony cared enough to talk to him without making it a joke that he’s really grateful for.

 

Tony salutes him and turns back the way they’ve just come, no doubt off to check on engineering before Natasha calls their command meeting. Steve’s shoulders slump in relief.

 

Miraculously, he makes it to his quarters without running into more than a handful of crew members. He knows the rumors will have spread throughout the entire ship in under an hour, but he’s just grateful the visuals have been limited to a handful of eyes.

 

The inside of his quarters gives him a weird sensation, a sense of the familiar as something uncanny and strange instead. It’s _his_ space—so why does it feel suddenly so alien to him?

 

He shakes it off and moves inside, allowing the door to silently close behind him. He finds a uniform in his closet and trades out the shorts, which he carefully folds and sets aside.

 

He steps into the bathroom that adjoins his room in his quarters and places the clean clothes on the counter before taking a perfunctory shower.

 

He usually takes long showers, splurges on them because the rest of his time is eaten up by work or blissful oblivion. Showers are the one time he allows himself to think about whatever he wants to—or to think about nothing at all.

 

He wants to think about nothing for a little bit right now, but he isn’t sure he deserves that luxury, especially with everything else that’s going on.

 

He turns off the water with a sigh and dresses quickly, moving on.

 

He stops by the mess to grab some food, just a quick replicated meal high in nutrients that comes out like porridge. But, then, he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who eats it like he’s supposed to, so he might as well continue taking it for the team. Besides, he’s sure that, for once, he could use it.

 

Fuck, food. They’re going to have to figure out what to feed Bucky.

 

He adds it to the list he’s compiling in his head, things to do in the short term, absolutely refusing to consider any longer term what-ifs at this time.

 

When he gets to the main conference room on the ship, the one where they plan everything from diplomatic missions to battle strategies, it’s still empty. Steve sinks into the chair at the head of the table and braces his elbows on table’s surface, dropping his head into his hands and breathing for a few moments.

 

He takes a few moments to acknowledge the _want_ that’s building inside of him, the hope that he might get what he wants and the guilt that it will come at a cost Bucky would have to pay—the cost of his exile from his _home._ Steve allows the feelings to boil in his gut for a few moments, and then he takes a deep breath and locks them all away.

 

He drops his arms until they’re resting on the surface of the table, rather than braced against it, and his hands are loosely clasped.

 

He thinks while he waits, because he can’t afford not to, but he only allows himself to think about strategy, about the mission, about where he fits into this picture in a tactical sense rather than in a personal one.

 

He thinks he has it, a general shape of an idea, by the time the first person enters the room.

 

Sam comes first, taking the seat on Steve’s left. “Hey man,” he says with a small smile. He looks exhausted, Steve notes, but that’s unsurprising with everything that’s been going on.

 

“Hey,” Steve greets, voice quiet for no good reason. “How are you holding up?”

 

Sam holds up a hand and shifts it back and forth. “Been better, but I’ve been worse.”

 

_I can relate,_ Steve thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. “I have a feeling things are gonna get a little worse before they get better,” he warns instead.

 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “A bit grim, Cap, don’t you think?”

 

Steve shrugs. “I’m trying for realistic.”

 

Sam shakes his head. “You got this far by being an idealist. Don’t let go of that now.”

 

The words punch Steve somewhere between his sternum and his stomach, making his breath hitch for a moment. Somehow, those two sentences do more to bolster Steve than all of Tony’s attempted pep talk. He clears his throat around the sudden weight there before he gives up on replying with words and just nods instead.

 

Sam reaches out and squeezes Steve’s shoulder, and for the first time, Steve thinks that maybe thinks will turn out _okay._

 

Natasha startles both of them by soundlessly dropping into the seat at Steve’s right, and Steve looks over to see that not only has she silently appeared, but Bucky has followed in her wake.

 

Bucky, who is looking at Sam with an unreadable expression and sporting markings that are shining a little bit red, but mostly green. _That’s a new one,_ Steve thinks, but he doesn’t have enough context to try and guess what it means.

 

“Hi,” Sam says to Bucky, dropping his hand from Steve’s shoulder and making an aborted motion forward like he wants to offer a handshake.

 

Steve coughs to cover a snort at Sam’s slip-up, because it’s endlessly hilarious that Sam’s just too good at being polite in a human way to be any good at foreign diplomacy.

 

“Hello,” Bucky says after a moment, glancing between Steve and Sam before looking away. “Is there somewhere I should sit?”

 

“You can sit next to me,” Natasha says. She places a hand on Bucky’s arm as she says it, and Steve feels a flash of jealousy—but that’s stupid. He wants his friends to like Bucky; what the hell is wrong with him?

 

He can feel Natasha’s amusement from beside him, because she can read micro expressions, but at least Sam seems unaware of Steve’s inner turmoil.

 

“Clint is in medical,” she says, instead of making fun of Steve. “Everyone else should be here, though.”

 

Steve nods in acknowledgement. “So, fill me in on what I missed,” Steve says, glancing first at Natasha, then at Sam. “I’d like to be up to speed before the others show up.”

 

“There’s that optimism,” Sam ribs. “But yeah, okay.”

 

Between the two of them, they describe their awareness of the crash, their inability to make contact with Steve, Clint, or Thor, and their eventual call into the higher-ups at SHIELD to report in and plan next moves.

 

The SHIELD Federation’s official line was that they were probably dead. Natasha glosses over what she might have said to get them to agree that maybe checking to make sure was a good plan, rather than just having her assume permanent command of the Avenger and their exploratory mission.

 

Meanwhile, Tony had found a virus uploaded to their systems that had impacted the shuttle and caused its malfunction. Tony had been on the case of rooting it out, but surprisingly—or not, maybe—his wonderkid, Peter, had actually managed to beat it first.

 

Once they’d tested everything as many times as protocol required, and then a few more for good measure, Nat, Bruce, and Tony had headed down to the surface of the planet to find out what they could.

 

“Does the admiralty know that you led the away mission?” Steve asks Nat.

 

She purses her lips.

 

Sam laughs.

 

Bucky, for his part, looks confused. Steve can sympathize—bureaucracy never makes any sense, no matter how well you know the ins and outs of it.

 

“Okay, I’ll dissemble, got it.”

 

In turn, he fills them in on the sketchy outline of his experience—Natasha’s heard most of it, but she listens attentively anyway.

 

Sam whistles at the end of it, but when he looks up from his clasped hands, it’s not at Steve—it’s at Bucky. “You doing okay?”

 

Bucky glances at Steve before back at Sam, colors swirling a little too fast for Steve to even try to track them. “Yes.”

 

Steve highly doubts that—by Sam’s arched eyebrow, he does too—but Natasha nods. “Will you tell us what you can so we’re able to complete this mission?”

 

Bucky remains quiet for a moment. Steve doesn’t need to see his colors to know he’s conflicted—it’s written out clear as day on his face. “I have, although—potentially—temporarily, been exiled. As such, the Elders can no longer dictate what I am and am not allowed to share of our planet and our culture.”

 

Steve wants to protest against that, but… he can’t. It’s all true, and what’s more, they _need_ any information Bucky can give them.

 

“Thank you,” Natasha says simply.

 

She pulls out a communicator and sends off a quick message. Steve raises an eyebrow. “There was no point in calling everyone in until we’d sorted things between us first,” she points out reasonably. “They’ll all be here ASAP.”

 

Sure enough, Tony (with Peter in tow), Thor, Loki, and Bruce make their way into the room. “Helen’s sent me instead,” Bruce tells Steve with a small shrug.

 

“That’s fine,” Steve agrees. Bruce tends to be better tactically anyway, and Helen often likes to point out that it’s her job to patch people up after things go wrong, not plan missions.

 

“Okay team,” Steve calls out, cutting through the whispers starting up as too many close friends sit around a table together. “The way I see it, we have two missions. Finding the Hydrans and recover the crystals without injury so that we can return them is the first. Figuring out a way to sell this to the admirals is the second. I’m taking any input about either.”

 

“I have an idea for tracking the Hydrans,” Tony says, holding up a hand like a kid in a classroom. Humoring him, Steve waves at him so that he’ll continue—with Tony, it’s always quickest to play along. “These crystals have an energy signature, right? What if we track it?”

 

It takes Steve a moment to realize what Tony’s getting at, and when he does, he glances instantly over to Bucky. “Your call,” Steve tells him. “You say no, we’ll figure something else out.”

 

Bucky visibly wavers, his colors a teal that’s heavy on the green—odds are that green is definitely _not_ a good thing, then. “How likely is it that we come up with an alternative in time?”

 

“Not very,” Tony answers before Steve can reply. “I’ve been thinking about it for hours, and I haven’t come up with anything else yet.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Just—can I stay with you, while you have it? And can you promise not to damage it?”

 

“You got it, Buckaroo,” Tony says.

 

Bucky glances at Steve, clearly confused. “Nickname,” Steve sighs. “Tony’s very… _fond_ of nicknames.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky says. He opens his mouth but closes it, opting to say nothing else.

 

Steve gives him a moment, but with nothing forthcoming, he moves on.

 

“Do we have any idea how the Hydrans knew what they were taking was valuable?”

 

“They might have scanned for energy signatures,” Tony suggests.

 

“Other planets might have similar materials, so they knew what to look for,” Bruce puts in.

 

No one else comes forward with any other ideas. “Okay, so it’s that or dumb luck,” Steve decides. “Now, how do we sell this to the admiralty?”

 

“New power source with unknown capabilities in enemy hands?” Natasha offers. It’s not even a lie—a slight over-exaggeration, but very slight. Rather, it’s phrased with the intent of scaring the admirals into action; Steve approves.

 

“Plus, recovering the crystals might endear us to the planet who has them,” Sam points out.

 

“My people would never share our crystals with any outsiders,” Bucky says. Steve’s familiar enough with his voice now to know when it sounds defensive, as it does right now. Even if he didn’t, Bucky’s colors are red, which is categorically not indicative of positive feelings for the most part.

 

“I know,” Steve assures him. “What matters is that the admirals _don’t_ know.”

 

Bucky doesn’t look convinced. Natasha puts a hand on his arm—Steve resolutely _does not_ feel jealous—and says firmly, “Our people would not take from your planet that which was not readily given, and if they tried, _we_ would stop them.”

 

Bucky watches her for a moment before he nods, achingly slowly. “Okay,” he agrees.

 

Steve nods to acknowledge Bucky’s acquiescence and then turns back to his senior officers. “Okay, Nat, you and I will talk to the admirals. Bucky, you go with Tony and help him figure out how to track the Hydrans. Sam, take the helm again, and be ready to move when Tony has coordinates for you. Thor, Loki, Bruce, stay here and plan our infiltration.” He looks around at them all in turn. “Got it?”

 

They all nod. He thinks Loki might say _something—_ he’s been worryingly quiet, although maybe that’s Thor’s doing as much as anything—but then, Loki does adore a chance to plan an incursion. It’s got enough of the chaos he craves to keep him satisfied, at least for a little while.

 

“Okay,” Steve declares, when no questions or comments arise. “Let’s do this.”

 

\--

 

Steve feels a little bit guilty leaving Bucky to follow Tony down to engineering. He’d left him with Natasha, of course, but Bucky had known Natasha slightly better, and Steve would trust Natasha with anyone, with anything.

 

He trusts Tony with a lot. But he still feels a little bit of guilt.

 

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha says from next to him as they walk to the bridge.

 

“I know,” Steve agrees.

 

“But you do need to talk to him,” Natasha points out.

 

“When, exactly, do you think I would have had the chance?”

 

She frowns at him. “You’re getting caught up in your head again, Steve. You need to remember that other people make their own choices too.”

 

“I know that!” Steve protests.

 

Natasha hums softly, noncommittal. “Talk to him.”

 

They’re quiet the rest of the way to the bridge, Natasha secure in the knowledge she’s made her point and Steve hopelessly grumpy about it.

 

At the bridge, Natasha kicks everyone off of the communications array. “Take a fifteen-minute walk,” she advises.

 

Steve thinks it’s optimistic that she thinks they’ll manage this in fifteen minutes.

 

Natasha leans down and patches through a call. When the call connects and Steve sees who she’s chosen, he has to contain a whistle.

 

Nicholas J. Fury, head of the admiralty. She’s not fucking around.

 

Maybe they _will_ be done in fifteen minutes; Fury never minces words.

 

“Captain Rogers,” Fury says. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”

 

“Thanks, Nick,” Steve says dryly. “I appreciate you sanctioning the rescue mission.”

 

Fury hums before turning to Natasha. “Commander Romanov. Good job.”

 

She doesn’t even spare him words, just inclines her head in a short nod.

 

Fury looks back to Steve. “So, what can I do for you?”

 

Steve lays it all out for him—the people, the crystals, the Hydrans and how they’ve obtained, in Natasha’s words, a “new power source with unknown capabilities.”

 

Fury’s got a perpetual frown on his face, but the frown has deepened by the end of it. “You want to go after them,” he says, cutting to the chase.

 

“Yes,” Steve agrees.

 

Fury glances between them. “Alright,” he decides after a moment. “But Captain? I no longer owe you one.”

 

Steve breathes out a small sigh of relief. “Understood.”

 

Fury cuts the call.

 

“That went better than I expected,” Steve says after a moment.

 

“It went exactly how I expected,” Natasha tells him. “Fury’s a good man.”

 

“He is,” Steve agrees. “But, ruthless.”

 

She nods again. “Exactly.”

 

Steve feels lost now that his portion of this has been handled. He could take the conn back from Sam—

 

Natasha cuts across that thought before he can even finish it. “You need to sleep, Rogers.” Last name, which means she’s serious.

 

He protests anyway. “I’m fine,” he says. “I don’t have time—”

 

“You have time right now,” she cuts over him. “Go the fuck to sleep, Steve. We need you at your best, or at least at the best we can have you.”

 

He waffles. “What are you going to do?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to go watch over your boy, so you know that he’s fine and calm down enough _to go the fuck to sleep.”_

 

Steve sighs. But the thing is, he knows she’s right. He hasn’t slept in over a day now, and while he _can_ go longer, it will mean he’s not at his best. He should take this chance while he has it.

 

“Fine,” he agrees. “Just—”

 

“I know.”

 

\--

 

Steve wakes feeling not exactly chipper or refreshed, but his mind is clearer, even through the fog of sleep. He realizes what woke him when his communicator trills again.

 

He fumbles for it on the nightstand and pulls it up to his face. “Captain Rogers speaking.”

 

“I’ve got it!” Tony tells him, voice manic in the way it always is when he manages something impossible. “I have them.”

 

“Tell Sam the coordinates,” Steve replies instantly. “And tell him I’m on my way.”

 

He dresses rapidly, scooping up his clothes from the floor where he’d abandoned them. When he steps out of his quarters, he sees Natasha leaning against the wall outside his rooms. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Where’s Bucky?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “With Stark, no doubt. They’re getting on just fine. How’d you sleep?”

 

“Fine,” Steve acknowledges. “Good, even. How long was I out?”

 

She hums, considering. “Less than five hours. Stark works fast.”

 

Steve nods. That’s not so bad—enough sleep he can get by, but not so much that he feels more guilty than he needs to about taking the time to rest. “What’s up?”

 

She holds out a fist full of protein bars. “Breakfast of champions.”

 

It’s this, the evidence of someone who knows him too well, who knows he would have skipped the mess and gone straight to the bridge without eating, that loosens something inside of Steve. He quirks half a smile at her and accepts the food. “Thank you.”

 

She shrugs. “Let’s go.”

 

Steve downs the handful of protein bars on their walk—inhales them, more like—and stuffs the discarded wrappers down a trash chute before they reach the bridge. By the time he strides in, he’s in his captain headspace—he’s ready to do this, whatever it takes.

 

“Do you have the coordinates?” he asks Sam.

 

“Ready to go at your command.”

 

Steve takes the captain’s chair, and Natasha plants herself at his side—there won’t be need for communications if this encounter goes right.

 

He uses the comms to call Thor. “Do you have a plan?” he asks.

 

“Yes,” Thor agrees. “I, Loki, and Bucharius will infiltrate the enemy ship.”

 

Steve notes one obvious flaw in their plan. “How are you getting there?”

 

Thor hums noncommittally before saying, “I have some piloting experience.”

 

Steve closes his eyes. “Watching Clint doesn’t count. I’m coming.”

 

“We welcome you,” Thor says, as if this isn’t what he had planned all along. “If Tony can pinpoint where on the ship the crystals may be, we will find and transport them back via the shuttle. If we run across any opposition, we will tear them down where they stand.”

 

Steve doesn’t want to ask, but: “And if we’re captured?”

 

“It will be up to our Commander to decide to mount a rescue mission or fire upon the enemy ship while cloaked.”

 

Steve closes his eyes for a moment. He doesn’t look at Natasha; they both know what this is asking, if he agrees.

 

“Alright,” Steve says, because he knows his men and he trusts that this is the best plan. “When will Clint be out of medical?”

 

“Three days,” Natasha replies instantly. Steve is thoroughly unsurprised that she’s the one to know that.

 

“You, Clint, and Sam need to man the ship. Bruce is on vitals and Tony needs to make sure everything is working the best it can.”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

Steve winces internally. “Thank you.” He glances around the ship, meets Sam’s eyes for a moment, silently asking him if he’s got this. Sam nods, once, just a dip of his chin, and Steve relaxes minutely. He stands and offers the chair to Natasha. “You have the conn.”

 

\--

 

Steve prepares for the mission while the ship is in transit to their destination.

 

It’s not so different from his star fleet uniform, the outfit he wears when he knows he’s headed into potential close combat. The material is reinforced—it won’t stop a phaser blast, but it’ll blunt the damage, maybe make a kill shot less (immediately) deadly—and all black, sleek and perfect for stealth. He has a phaser on his hip, set to stun rather than kill by personal preference, and Steve has a shield made of vibranium, the metal that powers their warp technology, as well as the majority of the SHIELD Federation’s technology.

 

That done, he strides toward engineering, taking what would normally be two and a half steps with every one step in his haste.

 

He has to search a bit to find where Tony has holed up, Peter at his side, Bucky nearby, all of them looking at a repurposed screen surrounded by a metric shit ton of wires.

 

“I have it,” Tony tells him, glancing up for just a moment before stepping back a bit to give Steve room to crowd around with them. “Look, see that right there?” He gestures at what Steve thinks is a scan of the enemy ship. It shows them some of what they can see inside it—not with much detail, but a vague sense. And there, off to the left and back, is a pulsating white burst of light.

 

“That’s it?” Steve asks.

 

“Yes,” Tony agrees. “Right, Buckaroo?”

 

Bucky huffs but nods. His markings are bright orange, casting a faint glow around them—not upset about the nicknames, then. He glances up at Steve, away from the screen, and blinks.

 

His markings glow the faintest bit pink. Steve fights back a blush, because after all this time, he thinks he’s got a handle on what _that_ means.

 

Tony clears his throat. “You need any weapons?”

 

Steve goes to answer, but when he tears his eyes away from Bucky and looks at Tony, Tony’s gaze is directed at Bucky instead.

 

“No,” Bucky tells him easily. “I have what I need.” He reaches out and snags the crystal, putting the chain back around his neck. Tony’s scanner goes dormant, the pulsing white light on the screen gone.

 

Steve has it committed to memory anyway. “You ready?” he asks Bucky. “Do you want armor? They have… advanced weapons.”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

 

The part of Steve that’s in love wants to fight him on it. But the practical part of Steve says Bucky knows his own capabilities, knows the risks, and that Steve needs to trust him. “Alright. Let’s go meet Thor and Loki.”

 

“Why Loki?” Bucky asks as they make their way toward the shuttle bay.

 

“He’s the best at stealth,” Steve admits. “Plus, if we need a distraction, he’s the best at fucking things up very quickly.” He wonders how “fucking things up” translated—but the translator keeps talking with him, so it must have somehow. “Teach me how to curse in your language later?”

 

Bucky laughs. “Yes. Absolutely.”

 

\--

 

Thor and Loki, who could have been princes on their planet but chose to explore the universe instead, wear their own armor into battle. Thor has a large hammer that he carries like it’s weightless. It channels electricity somehow—he’s explained it, for all the good it did Steve (or even Tony, for that matter)—to match Loki’s spear and ostentatious helm.

 

Bucky’s eyes widen as he takes them in. “Could I have had armor like that?” he asks Steve.

 

Thor lets out his booming laugh. “My friend, I shall gift you with the best armor Asgard has to offer when we next are there.”

 

Loki merely rolls his eyes. “What are you fighting with, then? Your fists?”

 

Bucky rolls his eyes back. He holds up his hands, and from them ice begins to form. It takes only a moment, and then he holds a sword that, to be fair, looks sharper than any made of metal Steve has ever seen.

 

“It will melt,” Loki comments, as if he’s not impressed.

 

Steve knows him too well, though. He’s absolutely impressed.

 

“No, it will not. Nor will it break. And if it dares, I will shape another.”

 

Thor claps Bucky on the shoulder. He doesn’t even waver—even _Steve_ tends to get knocked back, just a little, when Thor does that.

 

“Just don’t get yourself killed,” Loki sneers. Steve’s impressed—Loki’s rare to take to strangers so quickly, rarely cares enough if they live or die to bother commenting on it. “Come on, then.” He stalks off to the shuttle, Thor moving easily in his wake.

 

“You ready?” Steve asks Bucky, needing to hear it just once more.

 

Bucky must sense that, because instead of being annoyed, he grins at Steve. “Always.”

 

\--

 

The best part, in Steve’s opinion, is the part where Tony’s bug fails to unlatch the doors to the shuttle bay on the Hydran’s ship. Loki and Steve are arguing heatedly over what to do, when Bucky, who has been studying the ship with Thor, says, “Oh, I’ve got it.”

 

And the bay’s door… opens.

 

Steve’s jaw doesn’t drop open. But it’s a close thing, he’ll admit.

 

When they fly through, he glances at the panel in time to see that ice has crept up over the side nearest the button to open the hatch and pinned it down. Then they’re through, and the door shuts, so the ice must have melted.

 

How much control does Bucky _have_ over it?

 

Loki’s eyes are glinting. “What else can you do?” he asks Bucky, giving up the pretense of dislike in the face of the sheer potential these powers hold for his chaotic whims.

 

Bucky shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to find out,” he challenges.

 

Loki grins, a wicked sight. “By all means,” he says, gesturing at the shuttle’s hatch. “After you.”

 

\--

 

It goes well, for a while, for all that they’re stumbling through corridors mostly blind with just a general direction to head in. They manage to put down everyone they run across silently—but their luck can’t last.

 

Sure enough, less than twenty minutes in, an alarm sounds through the ship.

 

“Shit,” Steve hisses. “How close are we?”

 

The translator goes to repeat his words—at full volume—and Steve hastily turns it off.

 

Loki rolls his eyes. Okay, yeah, so they hadn’t thought _that_ through.

 

“Move,” Bucky says in English.

 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, and they keep moving.

 

They don’t have long. If the Hydrans are halfway competent, which Steve has to grudgingly admit they really are, then they’ll be able to scan the ship and find them.

 

But for all of that, it isn’t much farther before Steve yanks open a door to check what’s behind it, and—

 

Bucky’s pushing past him before he can see even process what he’s seeing. Then, Steve’s brain catches up and he whispers “ _shit”_ once more, but twice as emphatically.

 

It’s the crystals. But they don’t look like the crystals looked on Bucky’s planet, nestled in the stone of the deep caverns or worn around the necks of Bucky’s people. They look, if anything, too bright, so bright that looking at them directly kind of hurts.

 

He wants to ask Bucky what’s going on, but he can’t, and he doesn’t _really_ need to. He just wants to be told he’s wrong.

 

Bucky turns back to Steve and says words that Steve doesn’t have a hope of understanding.

 

“I don’t—” Steve starts to say, helpless and frustrated about it.

 

“He doesn’t have enough time,” Thor translates.

 

Steve blinks at him. “How do you know that?”

 

Thor shrugs. “I understand meaning, if not the words.”

 

Steve looks to Loki. “Since when?”

 

Loki shrugs. “Always. It is his gift.”

 

Steve takes half a second to process that, and then he shrugs it off and moves on. “How can we help?”

 

Bucky bites his lip. He seems to not have Steve’s problem understanding, at least, but then Natasha says speaking a foreign language is always harder than understanding it when it’s spoken.

 

Bucky speaks quickly to Thor, who nods. “He will save what he can, and then we must leave, and quickly. He says we have less than an hour before they…” Thor frowns. “Well, we have less than an hour.”

 

Steve wants to shake him, to shake them _both,_ to ask what it is the crystals will do.

 

He doesn’t.

 

He nods, instead, and says, “Do it.” He turns to Thor. “Help him. Loki and I will stop anyone from interrupting.”

 

“Volunteering me for the line of fire, Captain?” Loki asks. Steve levels him with a glare. “I suppose, if I must,” Loki acquiesces.

 

“Give them hell, brother,” Thor says softly.

 

Loki’s wicked smile is all the answer they need.

 

\--

 

When Bucky and Thor emerge from the room with the crystals, Loki has creatively incapacitated a dozen of Hydrans, and Steve has stunned a couple dozen more. “Let’s move,” Steve says, nudging Bucky forward when he looks like he wants to keep taking in Loki’s handiwork.

 

Bucky nods and tears his eyes away, following after Thor and Loki where they are already retracing their path through the ship.

 

They almost make it.

 

A door opens, suddenly, when they’re almost at the hanger, a blast shooting through it before Steve can move out of the way. He raises his shield and it repels it, reflecting it to tear a hole through a wall. When the Hydran emerges from the room, followed by five of his men, Steve’s shoulders go tense.

 

“Rumlow.”

 

The Hydran does something with his face that Steve, unfortunately, knows is a smirk. He launches forward at Steve, dodging the blast from Steve’s phaser and grasping at Steve’s shield with his tentacles, yanking it and pulling Steve closer.

 

Steve has to look away from Rumlow to shoot at another Hydran that’s advancing on him. He takes that one down, but the moment costs him, and Rumlow tears Steve’s shield away from him, tossing it aside.

 

He hits Steve with a blast from his own phaser; Steve dodges away, but it still tears through the armored shirt he’s wearing and scorches at his skin, blasting a hole in his side.

 

Steve doesn’t hesitate, switching the phaser’s setting from stun to kill and firing on Rumlow in a beat.

 

Steve goes down, dropping the phaser and pressing his hands to the wound on his side, but Rumlow goes down too, head blown off and tentacles writhing as his body catches up to what’s happened.

 

He’s not Steve’s greatest enemy, but he’s been a pain in Steve’s ass for a long time—if Steve’s going to die here, at least he took Rumlow down with him.

 

“Steve!”

 

Bucky’s there, suddenly, crouched over him. His hands are cool as they come up to cover Steve’s, which are warm with his blood.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, and the words come out choked.

 

Bucky doesn’t say any more—the translator is still off, Steve realizes. Instead, he shoves Steve’s hands away from his side and covers the wound with his own hands.

 

The pain intensifies, his nerves all firing angrily, and Steve’s vision spots. “Bucky,” he whispers, and then he’s dragged under.

 

At least Bucky’s face was the last thing he saw. At least Bucky was with him, holding him, in a fashion, while he faded.

 

There’s probably better ways to die, Steve knows. But there are worse ways, too.

 

Then there’s nothing—just the pain, and the cold, and the dark.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the penultimate chapter! Last one goes up on the 25th. <3 Comment to let us know what you thought!


	5. Movement

 

_“When you move, I move”_

Steve wakes up with a start. There’s no haze, no gentle coming to awareness. One moment, he’s dying, and the next, he’s blinking awake and squinting at the harsh glare of lights above him.

 

“Am I dead?”

 

“No,” says Bruce’s voice from somewhere beside Steve. He looks over, and yes, there is Bruce, situated against the backdrop of the med bay. “But Natasha says to tell you that you’re an idiot.”

 

Steve lets his head fall back onto the pillow and closes his eyes against the glare of the lights. “Did everyone make it back okay?”

 

“Minor injuries,” Bruce reports. “All healed by now.”

 

“Good.” Steve forces his eyes open and looks around him. There’s no one else in the wide expanse of the med bay; he can see that Helen Cho is in her office, the door open a crack, but that’s it.

 

Steve’s not disappointed. To be disappointed, he would have had to have expectations.

 

“Clint healed up?”

 

“Enough to return to his quarters,” Bruce says, which they both know means he’ll actually be wandering around the ship and trying to convince people to play darts with him in the rec room.

 

Steve nods. “How long have I been out?”

 

“Forty hours. Your boy stuck it out for about thirty-five before Natasha hauled him out of here to rest.”

 

“Oh,” Steve says dumbly. “Bucky was here?”

 

Bruce’s expression is one of pity. “Yes, Steve.” There’s a heavy implication of _where else would he have been_ in Bruce’s tone. Steve _might_ deserve that. Maybe.

 

Except.

 

Except he and Bucky haven’t talked.

 

They’re _something._ Something impossible.

 

They got the crystals back, and they’re going to return them, and Bucky’s going to be able to go home.

 

Steve’s head hurts, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart. “How am I?” he finally thinks to ask.

 

“Your healing factor and Bucharius’…” Bruce pauses. “…his magic, I suppose, kept you alive. You’ll have scars, but you’re alive.”

 

Steve supposes that’s a small price to pay. “How long am I down for?’

 

Bruce frowns. “Give it another day,” he says, but it’s a request, not an order. “The cradle repaired the internal damage, but you’re not back to full health yet.”

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Unless something comes up.”

 

Bruce sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose but he nods, clearly knowing that’s the best he’s going to get. “Go back to sleep, you stubborn idiot.”

 

Steve grins. “Thank you, Bruce.”

 

Bruce waves a hand at him, dismissive, and stalks away toward Helen’s office, probably to complain loudly and at length about Steve.

 

Steve closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep, a smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

\--

 

The next time he wakes, he’s more aware of his surroundings. He can tell, from the even breaths, that there’s someone to his right. He opens his eyes, trying not to hope, and is rewarded with the pleasant surprise of having his hopes fulfilled.

 

“Bucky,” Steve breathes.

 

Bucky smiles at him, his colors brighter and tinged yellow but still blue. “Hi, Steve.”

 

Steve can’t help but reach out, and Bucky takes his hand immediately. “Are you okay?” Steve asks.

 

The speech of a translator follows his words, although Steve doesn’t see one nearby. “Yes,” Bucky says, and then he holds up the wrist of his hand that isn’t holding Steve’s. “Tony made me this.” The translator’s words come from a bracelet around his wrist with blinking lights.

 

“You won’t have much use for it soon,” Steve says.

 

Bucky’s hand tightens around Steve’s, just for a moment, and his colors deepen in their blue until they’re darker than Steve’s ever seen. But after a few moments pass, Bucky lifts his gaze from the floor and meets Steve’s eyes. “What if I stayed?” he asks, all in a rush, all of the words in perfect English.

 

“What?” Steve asks. “You—why?”

 

Bucky looks down at their hands. “I don’t want to never see my family again,” he says slowly. “But I don’t want to never see _you_ again, either.”

 

Steve wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to choose, but that’s not a promise he can make. “You barely know me,” he says instead.

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “I love you.”

 

Steve hears the words. But he can’t comprehend them. “You barely know me,” he says, and winces. “Fuck, that’s not—”

 

Bucky lets go of his hand. “Well, then you should have been more careful,” he says, and his voice is angry, made angrier by its contrast to the neutral tone of the translator. “My people love only once, and now I will only ever love you.”

 

Steve wants to find the words to make this better—but he doesn’t have them. This is _so much_ to process all at once; it’s like Bucky’s words have shifted his universe just a little bit to the left, and Steve feels off-kilter. “I…” he starts, but he trails off. “I can’t—”

 

Bucky shoves to his feet and stalks away without another word, leaving Steve stunned in his wake.

 

“That’s not what I meant when I told you to talk to him, Cap,” says a voice from across the room, and Steve’s head jerks around to look for the speaker.

 

Tony is sitting on the side of a bed, legs kicking in the air, his hand wrapped in bandages. “What happened to your hand?” Steve asks.

 

Tony shrugs. “Burned it a bit. It’ll be fine. Stop deflecting.”

 

“Checking in on an injured crew member is not deflecting,” Steve protests.

 

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That was a spectacular shit show, Cap.”

 

Steve bristles, but Tony stares him down, and after a few moments and a couple of deep breaths, he deflates. “I’m so confused,” he admits.

 

“You always were obtuse when it came to other people’s attraction to you,” Tony muses. “Remember that girl in Andoria?”

 

“Tony,” Steve grits out. “What’s your point?”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “My point is that everyone with eyes has known Bucharius is completely in love with you.”

 

Steve’s hands clench into fists. “I’m not blind,” he protests. “I knew he had feelings for me, I just didn’t—”

 

“Didn’t think you were enough to keep him here?”

 

“Didn’t want him to give up his life to follow me,” Steve shouts. “He’s got a family, Tony. He’s got nieces and nephews and parents and siblings. Why should he have to give all of that up?”

 

“Why should you get to make that decision for him?” Tony asks.

 

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but then Tony’s words hit him, and his jaw snaps shut.

 

Tony doesn’t get a chance to say any more before Natasha storms into the room, eyes blazing. “Steven Grant Rogers,” she hisses, and Steve contemplates, for a moment, trying to suffocate himself with his pillow. But no, that death would be too slow; she’d reach him long before he achieved it.

 

“Natasha,” he says with a sigh. “Not now.”

 

She stops and assesses him. “If you don’t fix this—” she starts to threaten.

 

Steve cuts her off. “It’s none of your business whether or not I fix anything,” he tells her. “Either of you, actually,” he continues, glancing over at Tony as if his words aren’t clear enough. “I’m free to make my own mistakes in my personal life.”

 

Natasha’s fingers twitch, and Steve knows she’s imagining closing them around his throat. “I’ve never seen you act like a coward,” she says, voice low and deadly. “Before today.”

 

Having gone for the jugular, she turns and stalks away.

 

Tony whistles. “Is that your new superpower?” he asks. “Pissing everyone off?”

 

“Tony. Go away.”

 

Tony surprises him by actually leaving. Steve angrily turns onto his side and shoves a pillow over his head like it can block out the word. Like it can keep his thoughts from descending like an angry swarm of bees.

 

It doesn’t work, and the cutting words of his crew—of his _friends—_ spin round and round, until eventually he falls asleep.

 

\--

 

Steve leaves medical the next day.

 

He goes straight to his rooms and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes in the corridors on the way—he doesn’t know where the next attack might come from, but he’s not ready for it.

 

Maybe Natasha is right. Maybe he is a coward.

 

Fuck.

 

He discards his soft med bay clothes and clambers into the shower, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he goes. He stays under the water until his skin is more red than pink before reluctantly shuts off the water and emerges.

 

He glances at the mirror without meaning to, and his eyes catch instantly on the raised pink scarring on his side.

 

He hasn’t had scars from an injury since he became enhanced. But, then, he’s never come so close to dying.

 

He’s never had Bucky’s alien magic holding him together long enough for him to be healed.

 

He breathes out a sigh, more like an explosive gust of air leaving his chest, and nods once to himself in the mirror.

 

He dresses quickly and almost leaves without shoes, doubling back when the chill of the smooth floor of the corridor on his bare feet registers, and makes his way out again moments later.

 

He finds the guest quarters and knocks on every door until one opens.

 

“Bucky.”

 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

 

Steve realizes, abruptly, that for all his resolve to talk, he hadn’t given himself time to consider what he should say. “Can I come in?”

 

Bucky considers him. “Why?”

 

“To talk.”

 

After a moment, Bucky nods. “Did you know we’ll be at my planet in three hours?”

 

Steve didn’t know, actually. He should know; that Natasha hasn’t relinquished command to him, that she hasn’t kept him updated on anything at all, really, speaks to how angry she is with him. “I didn’t,” Steve admits carefully.

 

Silence falls between them. Steve wishes Bucky would speak first, but he can acknowledge that it’s his cowardice that desires it.

 

He breaks the silence the best way he knows how and says, “I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” Bucky asks, and that’s fair.

 

“I didn’t know,” Steve tells him. “That you loved me. What it meant, when we…”

 

Bucky studies him for long seconds before he asks, “Would you have done anything differently?”

 

Steve’s impulse is to say _yes._ But he considers it, because he owes Bucky his honesty. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t know that I could have. I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”

 

“You were my choice,” Bucky tells him. “I chose you.”

 

“I never wanted to make you have to choose,” Steve tells him. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

 

“Loving you doesn’t hurt. Or, it didn’t. Now, I don’t know.”

 

Steve aches with the knowledge. “You deserve the universe,” he whispers. “And I’m just…”

 

Bucky’s eyes flash in the light of his markings, which abruptly glow red. “You’re scared that you won’t be good enough.” He states it as a fact, but Steve nods anyway. “I don’t want you to be anything more than you are. Just you.”

 

Steve feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “I’ve never—” _been enough,_ he doesn’t say.

 

“I love you,” Bucky tells him again. _You are enough for me._

 

Steve doesn’t know he’s crying until he feels the tears drop from his cheek, one falling onto his chest with a small splatter. Bucky reaches out, ever curious, eyes softening in a glow that fades from red to pink. “Shh,” he whispers, hands reaching up to cup Steve’s face, thumbs wiping away the tracks of his tears.

 

Steve takes a deep breath, and he puts into words the emotion he’s been trying to suppress for what feels like a lifetime, now. “I love you, too.”

 

Bucky _shines._

Steve’s eyes are dazzled but transfixed. “Can I?” he whispers. He thinks he knows the answer, but he won’t take any liberties that aren’t freely given.

 

Bucky answers with action, leaning forward and gently pressing Steve’s lips to his own.

 

It’s little more than a chaste kiss, but Steve’s knees go weak, his head spinning, from the simple thrill of having this, something he’d been sure was impossible.

 

(It’s possible, Steve can acknowledge now, that he’s been stubborn and a martyr and everything Natasha and Tony could ever accuse him of. He’ll even admit that they were right, if only in the privacy of his own mind, because getting over himself brought him _here.)_

 

Steve sighs into the kiss, relaxing slowly, hands coming up to hold Bucky’s arms. They break apart for a moment, and Steve’s eyes open—when had they slipped closed?—to meet Bucky’s ice-blue gaze. “I love you,” Steve tells him again, because now that he’s said it once, he can’t keep it in.

 

Bucky’s gaze doesn’t darken; it sharpens, and he pulls Steve back in for a kiss, this one decidedly less chaste than the one before it. His tongue swipes over Steve’s bottom lip and Steve gasps, his mouth falling open just enough for the kiss to deepen in increments.

 

Steve comes to the realization, slowly, that Bucky is completely in control.

 

It’s freeing in a way Steve would never have expected. He wouldn’t have thought there was any tension left in his body, but when he comes to this realization, it well and truly melts away. “Bed?” he whispers, still a question—never a presumption.

 

“Yes,” Bucky agrees.

 

Steve loses track of who moves first. Shaking fingers yank his shirt over his head, and he kicks off his pants, stumbling a little and using the momentum to topple over onto the bed.

 

Steve rolls onto his side, to watch Bucky finish divesting himself of the spare uniform clothes Natasha must have found for him. “So many layers,” Bucky mumbles, sounding put out. “How do you do it?”

 

Steve grins. “I’m used to it. But you feel free to wear as little as you like.” He knows the implication is heavy in his words—how could it not be, with the charge in the air between them—but he means it to. He wants Bucky as he is, however he wants to be, but he doesn’t know how to go about explaining that without ruining it.

 

 _I’ll just show him,_ Steve thinks, resolve growing.

 

It’s timed perfectly, as Bucky hesitates, and Steve reaches out for him. “C’mere.”

 

Bucky hardly hesitates, taking Steve’s hand and allowing him to tug at Bucky until he’s sprawled over Steve, thighs settled on either side of Steve’s, arms bracketed by his head. “Hi,” Steve says softly. He reaches up, brushes Bucky’s long hair out of his eyes, settles his hand on the back of his neck, not pulling him closer, just holding him as close as he wants to be.

 

“Hi,” Bucky breathes back. He speaks in Steve’s language, and Steve thinks two things at once. Once, he really hopes Bucky picks up his language fast, because speaking during sex and relying on a translator’s neutral tones is less than ideal and one hundred percent fucks up the mood. Two, he’s absolutely going to need Natasha to somehow drill the knowledge of Bucky’s language into his skull, because he wants Bucky to have this feeling—of someone caring enough to know a part of him that’s foreign, to work to understand them and be understood in turn.

 

Steve hates learning languages, but he loves Bucky so, so much more, so he’s confident it’ll work out.

 

Steve smiles, pleased, and Bucky’s lips echo the smile when he ducks down to press his mouth to Steve’s in a reverential kiss. Steve can almost feel Bucky’s hesitance melt away, and he breaks free of the kiss but doesn’t go far, moving down Steve’s jaw and neck with purpose.

 

Steve feels a small gasp leave his mouth as Bucky’s teeth scrape along his neck. The marks from last time have long since faded, and he’s suddenly, achingly desperate for Bucky to replace each and every one. “Please,” he whispers.

 

Bucky doesn’t answer—at least, not with words. Instead, he bites down, and Steve’s startled by the moan that feels like it’s been torn from him. Bucky sucks and nibbles and soothes over the mark with his tongue, before moving down and starting all over again.

 

It doesn’t take long before Steve’s got his hands fisted in the sheets next to him, his back arching as Bucky sucks a mark just above his clavicle, the cool fingers of his right hand skimming down Steve’s chest as he leans all of his weight on his left arm. “Fuck,” Steve whispers. He shivers at the contrast of Bucky’s fingertips brushing against his heated skin—he’s definitely flushed, and he all but preens at the knowledge that Bucky enjoys the pinkening of his pale complexion. “Your fingers are so cold,” he marvels.

 

Bucky pulls back and Steve whines involuntarily at the loss of contact. It takes a moment for the fog in his brain to clear enough for him to realize Bucky looks hesitant once more. “Sorry,” he says, and Steve can’t think of what Bucky could possibly be sorry for.

 

“Why?” Steve asks. His body wants to arch up, seeking contact, but he forces himself still for the moment.

 

“It’s harder to control the magic when I’m…” Bucky trails off, eyes sweeping over Steve before he finishes, “…distracted.”

 

Steve squirms, because he’s abruptly becoming aware that he doesn’t care, the opposite really, he is _into that._ “It’s fine,” he breathes out. “It’s—it’s more than fine, really, please touch me.”

 

His breath catches again when Bucky presses his palm to Steve’s chest, and Steve stops holding himself back, arches into the touch. “Yes,” he whispers, “please, Bucky, please.”

 

Bucky pulls back his hand, but before Steve can protest, he’s conjured ice between his fingers. “Like this?” he asks, and Steve can’t formulate words, just nods eagerly.

 

Bucky settles back on his thighs, a glorious pressure _almost_ where Steve desperately needs it, so that both of his hands are free. He presses over what must be a mark that he’s left on Steve’s neck, because it twinges in the exact right way that sends sparks right to Steve’s dick. “Fuck,” Steve whispers, headspace falling back into that state that’s somehow hyper-aware and hazy at the same time.

 

Steve bites his lip as Bucky’s fingers trail down, pressing almost lazily against the marks that he’s sucked into Steve’s skin, before he ghosts his fingers across one of Steve’s nipples and Steve arcs off of the bed, a sudden and unexpected movement.

 

Unexpected to him, at least; Bucky moves with him, unperturbed, his weight crashing back down on Steve and his hips pinning him even more securely. “I’ve got you,” Bucky says, and Steve whimpers, biting down on his lip, because, _fuck._

 

“Please, please, Buck, please,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first, his mouth giving life to the words without his awareness.

 

Bucky circles his nipple with cold fingers, pinches experimentally, and Steve whines deep in his throat. Then Steve feels something even cooler trace a path around his other nipple, and he tries to arch up but his hips are trapped, and he groans aloud, overwhelmed.

 

The ice trails lower, a contrast to his heated skin, tracing paths across his skin that feel like the opposite of fire but just as potent. Bucky’s hand comes close to where Steve wants it, but not close enough, the ice gone in a moment and cool hands gripping his hips instead, holding tight enough to bruise.

 

Steve’s still saying words—he doesn’t know what, anymore, mindless pleas and affirmations—but Bucky still asks, “May I?”

 

Steve doesn’t fully know what he’s asking for. He doesn’t care; the answer is the same: “Yes, please, Bucky, yes.”

 

Bucky’s fingers trail up the length of Steve’s dick, and he sucks in a breath and holds it. Bucky must take that as approval, because his hand wraps around Steve’s dick, and he pumps it experimentally, slowly, taking his time.

 

Steve’s hips buck into the sensation, but Bucky pins him easily. “I’ve got you,” he says again, his other hand coming up to stroke across Steve’s hairline, down his cheek, holding him softly in parallel to the soft pulls on his cock.

 

Steve thinks he might actually die, but what a way to go.

 

Although, _actually,_ now that he’s thinking it—there’s definitely more he’d want to do, if this was his last act. (Yes, he’s being melodramatic. And yes, he thinks he’s one hundred percent allowed, because the sexiest person in the universe is on top of him and they’re having _sex.)_

 

“Last time,” Steve says, and then loses the thread of the thought for a moment. “Oh, fuck.”

 

Bucky smirks and pauses, which is just unfair and unacceptable. “Fuck, no, don’t stop,” Steve complains.

 

Bucky resumes his maddeningly slow tugs at Steve’s cock, and Steve’s torn between being frustrated and relieved. “Last time?” Bucky prompts.

“Last time, you said you would fuck me,” Steve says, all in a rush before he can get distracted.

 

“Oh.” Bucky’s markings glow impossibly brighter; Steve has to close his eyes and blink away the spots from his vision, but it’s worth it. “Is that what you want?”

 

Steve nods.

 

“How do we…?” Bucky starts to ask, looking hesitant, and Steve remembers, abruptly, that they’re two different alien species. It’s not taboo by any means—there’s a long tired saying that humans will figure out how to have sex with any alien species they come across—but it will mark the first time a human and an alien from Bucky’s species—oh, shit, they’ll need to be called something, won’t they? _Aurorans_ has a nice ring to it, Steve thinks, but then, that’ll be up to them in the end—has sex.

 

 _Awesome,_ he thinks, a bit dizzy with it.

 

“Generally,” he comments thoughtfully, “with lube. I wonder…”

 

He doesn’t want to shove Bucky off of him, so he doesn’t bother. He just leans over enough to open the drawer of the side table and root around in it.

 

Bucky reaches past Steve, picks something up, and hands it over. “This?”

 

Steve looks at the small bottle of lube and grins. It does _not_ come standard in guest rooms, that’s for certain, which means Natasha is, as always, two steps ahead and the best of friends. “Yeah,” he agrees. “This.” Steve shifts his hips and says, “Here, scoot back a bit.”

 

When Bucky obliges, Steve widens his legs so that Bucky’s between them rather than on top of them, bracketed neatly. “Oh,” Bucky says, grinning. “I get it.”

 

Steve grins back. “Well then,” he says, “would you like to do the honors?” He pops the cap open and passes it over, before settling back, arms behind his head.

 

The press of the first finger against his hole isn’t a surprise, but you wouldn’t know it by the way his body reacts, arching into the touch. He lets out a small sigh as Bucky’s finger pushes slowly but steadily in.

 

When Bucky slides a second finger in, there’s the hint of a stretch and burn because Steve hasn’t done this in… well, a long fucking time. He groans as Bucky moves his fingers in and out, scissoring to stretch Steve’s hole, and Steve’s dick throbs in time with the beat of his heart. “God, Buck,” he breathes. “You feel so good.”

 

Bucky makes a small pleased hum and continues on, adding a third finger. He crooks them and brushes against Steve’s prostate; Steve cries out, because he’s oversensitive and it feels impossibly good, but Bucky stills, clearly surprised. “It’s good,” Steve babbles out when he’s caught his breath. “So good, oh my God, do it again.”

 

Bucky obliges him, stroking over the spot with intent this time, and a moan tears its way out of Steve’s chest, deep and resonating. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, okay, you gotta—you gotta get in me, I’m gonna come soon and I want—”

 

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks.

 

Steve nods, a little frantic. “So, so sure,” he promises. “Never been more sure of anything. Please.”

 

Bucky pulls his fingers out and it takes a concentrated effort on Steve’s part not to whimper at the emptiness. But then the head of Bucky’s cock is pressing bluntly against Steve’s ass, just the tip pushing in, and Steve can’t help but clench around it.

 

The both groan, Steve’s hands fisted in the pillow above his head, but then Bucky asks, “Okay?”

 

Steve can’t really find words at the moment, but he nods, reaching out to brush fingers across Bucky’s cheek when he looks uncertain. Bucky nods back and rolls his hips in a small, controlled motion, rocking just _that_ much further into Steve.

 

And, fuck, Steve can feel the ridges of his dick catching against his hole already, and he knows for sure he’s not going to last long. He reaches out with the hand that had brushed against Bucky’s cheek and grips tight at the base of his dick, not to pull himself toward release but to try to stave it off for that much longer.

 

Bucky rocks further in, and the sensation of being slowly filled by his ribbed cock is almost torturous.

 

Finally, after an eternity, Bucky bottoms out, and Steve can’t help but clench around him, his body thrumming with tension from holding off his orgasm. “Fuck, Bucky, so good,” he praises, reaching out with his other hand to stroke clumsily down Bucky’s arm where it’s braced by Steve’s sides.

 

Bucky hums again and nuzzles lazily at Steve’s thigh, no urgency in the motion, like he’s not got his dick pressed inside of Steve, and Steve thinks he might cry. “Move, Buck, please,” he begs.

 

Bucky’s smile is more like a smirk, as he pulls out slowly—so, so slowly—until just the head of his cock is inside of Steve. Steve’s panting, his hand squeezing his own dick at each tug of the ridges against his hole. “Like this?” Bucky asks, pushing back in more slowly than Steve can bear.

 

He’s babbling at this point, not really aware of what he’s saying, begging helplessly for more, harder, _now._

 

And then Bucky pulls out and pushes back in, hips snapping in a hard and fast thrust, and Steve cries out from the sensation, clenching as he tries to pull Bucky even further inside of him. Bucky thrusts a few times before he finds the perfect angle, where he’s pounding into Steve relentlessly, and Steve can feel his eyes welling up with tears from the sheer amount of sensation he’s being subjected to.

 

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky says eventually, the words breaking through the haze of pleasure that’s overtaken Steve’s conscious brain. “I want to see you come.”

 

Steve’s coming before he even realizes it, tears streaming down his face and body tensing, ass clenching around Bucky’s dick.

 

Through the blinding pleasure, he can distantly feel—something. Bucky has thrust once, twice more before coming in Steve—but that’s not what Steve’s feeling right now. He’s feeling something large pressing against his hole, more of a stretch and burn than he’d felt with Bucky’s fingers earlier, but the pain of it is dulled by the pleasure coursing through his body with the orgasm.

 

When it’s over, though, he can note the unusualness of the feeling—and the fact that it hasn’t gone. He moves slightly, and, nope, that’s not a thing, he’s not going to be doing _that_ any time soon.

 

He doesn’t really have it in him to be bothered by, well, whatever, so he just clumsily strokes over Bucky’s hair and drifts in the endorphins.

 

“Hey Bucky,” he says finally, when Bucky’s eyes are clear again.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What’s…” Steve can’t really think of the words. “Uh, going on down there?”

 

Bucky’s body tenses, going completely still. “Do your people not do this?”

 

“What is ‘this’?”

 

Bucky’s initial response goes untranslated. His colors, before this a steady pink, turn red in frustration. “A knot?” he tries eventually, and that translates.

 

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s not well versed in xenobiology by any stretch, but he does know of species that do this. He’s never had sex with one, though. “Cool, okay.”

 

Bucky studies him for a moment before relaxing. “I didn’t know it would surprise you,” he says. “I apologize.”

 

Steve shrugs. “No need. I could have asked more questions rather than assuming things. I knew surprises were a possibility.”

 

“Is it… a bad surprise?”

 

Steve strokes a hand down Bucky’s arm in comfort. “Nope. Just an unexpected one.” He wiggles slightly, feeling the pull and burn and, more than that, the way they’re tethered together. “It’s kinda nice.”

Steve drifts in the happiness of this moment. He likes the feeling of being full even after the act is done, of Bucky pressed over and against him like this. When the knot goes down and Bucky slips free, Steve sighs a little over the emptiness even as he tugs Bucky up to snuggle with him properly.

 

“I love you,” Steve tells him, reveling in the freedom to say the words.

 

“I love you too,” Bucky replies, ghosting a kiss over Steve’s cheek.

 

Steve dozes off with Bucky in his arms and a smile on his face.

 

\--

 

A sharp rap on his door eventually rouses Steve. Natasha overrides the lock and strides in, stopping in the center of the room and taking in what Steve thinks must be quite a sight.

 

“Good,” she says decisively. “But I need you on the bridge in fifteen.”

 

“Got it.”

 

She turns and strides away, the door shutting with a gentle click behind her.

 

Steve turns his head to look at Bucky, where he’s managed to both sprawl out and curl around Steve. “Are you going to go back down with us?”

 

“Yes. I want to see my family, if I can.”

 

Steve nods. “I have to speak with the Elders. It’s my job to promote beneficial relationships between SHIELD and other planets.”

 

Bucky leans over and kisses Steve’s cheek softly. “I understand,” he says. “Maybe this time it will be better. They didn’t actually expect you to come back.”

 

Steve smirks, because he likes proving people wrong—he’s a troublemaker at heart, and that will never change—but his smirk softens into a genuine smile when he realizes, “You knew I would, though.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Steve can’t _not_ kiss Bucky then.

 

\--

 

It takes them longer than fifteen minutes to get to the bridge.

 

\--

 

When they make it to the bridge twenty-five minutes later, Natasha seems unsurprised. She rises from the captain’s chair and gestures for Steve to sit.

 

It’s a formality they usually don’t observe, but with their fight before and the way she’s been leaving him out of the loop, it _means_ something this time.

 

He settles into the captain’s chair and feels his universe shift neatly back into place.

 

Natasha stands by his right side, and Bucky dithers for a moment before settling in on his left, slightly behind him. “How long until we’re in orbit?” Steve asks.

 

“Three minutes, Captain,” Sam replies.

 

Steve nods. “I’m going down again,” he says.

 

Natasha frowns, but she doesn’t argue. “Okay. Who else?”

 

Steve considers. “Thor,” he decides. “Bucky. Is there anyone else who wants to go?”

 

“Tony thinks the crystals are fascinating,” Natasha relays.

 

“Yes, and I don’t want Tony causing an intergalactic incident because he can’t keep his hands to himself,” Steve tells her with a roll of his eyes.

 

“I’d like to go,” Sam says from his station a few feet away. “I can hardly mess things up more than you lot have, right?”

 

“Hey!” Steve fake pouts. “I could have you written up for insulting a superior officer.”

 

Sam laughs. “Sure, Cap,” he agrees easily. “So I’m in then?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, why not.”

 

Sam has to focus then, slowing them from warp and dropping them into orbit around Bucky’s home planet.

 

But then it’s done, and Steve’s looking at the planet he was almost stranded on for good. But, also, the planet where he met Bucky—so he can’t find a fault with it, really.

 

He turns to look at Bucky, whose eyes are wide and drinking in the sight. He’s wearing a Starfleet uniform—a statement, Steve is sure—red shirt covering his chest and arms. But his markings snake out across his hands and face, and Steve can see them glowing a soft yellow.

 

He wants to offer again— _you could go back—_ but he knows it wouldn’t be taken the way he intends it. Instead, he reaches back and threads his fingers through Bucky’s, holding tightly to his hand.

 

\--

 

Steve worries, a bit, about the shuttle ride down to the surface of the planet. He feels that’s justified, as the last time he did this trip, he ended up falling from the sky.

 

But nothing goes wrong. They land within minutes, close to the cavern entrance that will lead them to Bucky’s (former) settlement.

 

Sam looks around with shrewd eyes for a bit before smiling brightly. “I like this place.”

 

Bucky glances over at him. Steve isn’t quite sure why Bucky hasn’t taken to Sam the way he’s taken to literally everyone else, but he trusts that whatever it is, they’ll figure it out between the two of them. Sure enough, after a moment, Bucky says, “Wait until you see where we live.”

 

Sam smiles. “Looking forward to it.”

 

\--

 

One of Bucky’s people is guarding the entrance to the caves when they get inside. “You are not welcome here,” they say.

 

“No,” Bucky replies in his own language. “We are welcome here conditionally.”

 

The person’s eyes widen slightly, but they say, “And I should believe the word of a traitor?”

 

Steve bristles, but Bucky laughs. “Believe what you will,” he says easily. “Would you turn us away and explain to the Elders how foreign people obtained our crystals?”

 

The alien’s color’s flash sea green. “Follow me.” It may just be Steve, but he doesn’t think the person sounds too happy about acquiescing.

 

Bucky follows, looking entirely unbothered, colors purple. He glances back at Steve and the markings pinken, slightly, before he looks away again.

 

Steve’s heart skips a beat, and he grins.

 

Maybe he’s going to have to learn how to be a captain and a lover at the same time. But Steve’s attained a state of calmness about the inherent complications that come with falling in love; he’s figured out how to be a captain and a friend, and he’ll figure this out too—in his own time.

 

For now, he reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand. He doesn’t have to look over to know he’s smiling, but he looks over to see it anyway, because it’s not a sight he’ll ever lightly ignore.

 

\--

 

“You have returned.”

 

Steve is less than pleased with the Elders for a handful of reasons, but one new one is that they haven’t cast so much as a glance in Bucky’s direction.

 

“Yes,” Steve agrees. “We have recovered what we could of the crystals. The rest were destroyed.”

 

“And you did not think to keep them for yourself?”

 

“They do not belong to us,” Steve tells them evenly. “I meant what I told you. We aren’t looking for power—or at least not power alone. We are far more interested in making alliances and keeping people safe.”

 

The Elders consider him. “You have defended your claims,” the purple Elder says at last. “Return the crystals, and we can speak of a relationship between our peoples.”

 

Steve turns to nod at Bucky, who walks forward with the crystals and passes them off to the Elders. They can’t ignore him now, Steve notes with satisfaction; he keeps his face carefully calm, but revels in the joy of taking in their unease at seeing one of their own in the uniform of the SHIELD Federation.

 

Bucky returns to take his place next to Steve, and the Elders look thoughtful.

 

 _Good,_ Steve thinks somewhat viciously. Whatever, it’s well-deserved malice.

 

Discussing terms of a relationship between their peoples is easy but exhausting.

 

They are firm on the stance that they have no wish to trade—fine. It’s Steve’s job to try to convince them at least a little bit, but that’s not the most important thing by any means.

 

They are interested in information about the word beyond. They agree to establish communication with the rest of the SHIELD Federation, and to allow people from the Federation to visit, so long as they abide by the Elders’ terms.

 

It’s a good starting point. Steve doesn’t think Fury will be disappointed by any means—that’s really all he cares about; the rest of the admirals can go fuck themselves.

 

“We have one further condition,” the Elders say.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

“Bucharius is to be allowed to join your crew as a liaison between our peoples.”

 

Steve meets the gaze of the purple Elder, and he thinks, _oh._ She’s helping them. Maybe it’s her way of making amends. “As long as he is allowed to return and visit.”

 

“Of course,” the Elder says. “We would also ask that your crew be our primary point of contact with your Federation.”

 

Steve nods. “That should be fine,” he says. It’ll take some convincing, sure, but once he gets Fury on his side, the other man can browbeat the rest into submission.

 

When the Elders dismiss them, Rebecara is waiting for them outside of the room. She throws her arms around her brother immediately, pulling him close, before turning to Steve and saying, “Thank you for bringing him back to us.”

 

Steve is, abruptly, guilty, but he nods and says, “Of course.”

 

He’s done trying to make Bucky’s decisions for him; if Bucky wants to be on Steve’s crew, then Steve will fight the rest of the world until it’s a done deal.

 

“Go see your family,” Steve tells Bucky.

 

Bucky leans in to drop a kiss on Steve’s cheek—Steve goes bright red, of course he does, but he’d dare anyone _not_ to in this instance—and smiles. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

\--

 

“How were they?” Steve asks Bucky later that evening, as they settle in to a nest of blankets together.

 

Bucky’s markings glow a pleasant pale yellow. “Good,” he says. “Would you like to meet them?”

 

“I’ve met them already,” Steve points out.

 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Not like this,” he says. “Not as my…”

 

“Partner,” Steve decides. “We can figure out the best word for it later.” He thinks, idly, that he’d like to marry Bucky in the human custom—but maybe not yet. He can’t even imagine how long Natasha would smirk at him for moving so fast, never mind that Steve has never been so certain about anything in his life.

 

But. Eventually.

 

“Yes,” Steve tells him, dropping a kiss onto Bucky’s cheek. “I’d like to meet them.”

 

As they fall asleep tangled together, Steve realizes that the lonely pit inside of him is gone. For the first time in a long time, he’s excited for tomorrow, and every day after that. “I love you,” he whispers to Bucky.

 

Bucky’s already asleep and doesn’t respond, but Steve doesn’t need him to say the words to know that he’s loved in return.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is guys! The completion of my first big bang event! 
> 
> Biggest thanks first and foremost to LadyAngelique, who has been a joy to work with; if y'all could see how long our email chains got as we planned out this story, you wouldn't believe it. I'm so glad we got paired to work together and so proud of the story we brought to life. 
> 
> Final thanks to everyone who has commented on and kudosed this work, for letting us know you like it, and thanks to everyone who will continue to do so as they find it. You are all very appreciated, and we're glad you like our universe, too. 
> 
> And last but not least, thanks to the mod team for CapRBB2019, who have done such amazing work to bring such an awesome event to life!


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